


Instinct

by Talithax



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 83,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years have passed since Chris Keel left both CI5 and his relationship with Sam Curtis behind.  The death of his old commander, Malone, however sees him having to brave a return to the London for the funeral.  The question is, what's he going to encounter when he gets there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Self beta'd and written 2 years ago after not having written anything for years and years.

========  
INSTINCT  
========

Turning on the computer, I lean back in my chair as I wait for it to boot up and smile a greeting at my colleague, Special Agent Danny Tan, as he walks through the door and into the small office. Carrying a take-away coffee from a nearby café, he toasts me with the cup before taking a seat behind his desk and looking at me expectantly.

“Check your email,” Danny announces. “I sent you something.”

“No? Really?” I retort, gazing across at Danny in mock surprise as I enter my password into the computer. If there was such a group as Emailers Anonymous I’d be firmly recommending to Danny that he attend a meeting or ten. I suspect there are Facebook addicts who check their account with less frequency than Danny checks his emails. He also loves to share his email obsession by forwarding things left, right and centre. Not a day goes by that I don’t get at least a dozen forwarded emails. Youtube links, allegedly funny jokes, nauseatingly cute animals, the Darwin Awards, a never ending stream of lolcats. If it’s out there in the wonderfully weird world of email then you can bet it would have strayed across Danny’s path at one time or another and that, in turn, he would have shared it with everyone he’s ever had cause to collect an email address from.

Grinning, Danny flips me the bird. “Smart ass.”

“Yeah, but you’re stuck with me anyway,” I reply sweetly, opening up Outlook and groaning as I quickly count eight emails having been forwarded from Danny’s account this morning. “Hmm… Of the eight no doubt hilarious and entertaining emails sitting here waiting for me, what one, would you say, should I open first?”

“The one with no heading,” Danny replies as he gets up from his chair and walks over to my desk. “It should be the last one.”

Nodding, I find the email he’s referring to and open it. “The one that’s just a link, yeah?” I query, glancing up at Danny for confirmation. “The London Times though, isn’t that a bit highbrow for your usual… uh… level of sophistication?”

“And again I say… smart ass,” Danny smirks, perching himself on the edge of the desk and tapping his finger impatiently on the computer monitor. “Come on. I want to know if I’m right or not.”

“Right about what ex… Oh!” Sharing banter with Danny coming off second best to the shock installed in me by the obituary suddenly coming up on the screen, I fall silent and dully shake my head. “I…” I try again to say something if not of note to Danny then at the very least expected, but words fail me. I don’t know what to say. Just… I what exactly? Thought he was immortal? Assumed, not that in all honesty I’d actually thought about it all, he was dead already?

“I’m right, aren’t I,” Danny states triumphantly as, apparently oblivious to the fact I’ve come over like a stunned mullet, he jumps off the desk in order to lean over my shoulder to read what’s on the screen. “Malone, he was your old boss, yeah?”

“Commander,” I correct automatically, wondering how exactly Danny knows this but knowing already that I’m not going to ask him. I don’t really talk about my past and don’t recall ever having shared any of it with Danny. What I have, however, shared with him is quite a few hard drinking sessions and perhaps it may have come out then. Not that it matters anyway. If I did share an alcohol fuelled confession with him at least he’s had the good grace to keep it to himself. “He was my commander while I… uh… while I was at CI5.”

“Thought so. Also thought it was a friend-like thing to do to share the link with you ‘cos they sure do say some mighty nice things about him,” Danny replies, lapsing into another of his oddly endearing, to some while to others completely infuriating, traits. Knowing and liking him well enough I’ve learned to tune out his peculiar habit – especially for an Asian-American born and raised in New York – of speaking as though he should be ploughing fields down on a homestead or fiddling with a car wreck in a trailer park, even if I do still find it a little jarring now and again. “Mind you, I suspects you already knew and I’m just…”

“I didn’t know,” I interrupt, the flat tone of my voice shutting Danny up even more effectively than the fact I was talking over the top of him. I wish he’d go away, so I could read the obituary in peace but I don’t want to shoo him off for fear of him realising how much the news has stunned me. “I… Uh… Since leaving London and returning to the States I haven’t really… uh… kept in touch with any of my old… colleagues…”

Closing his hands around my shoulders, Danny rests his chin on the top of my head. “Three years of workin’ with you and you’re still a damn mystery,” he mutters. “You spent five years with that Brit lot, yeah? I’d have thought…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grind out, cutting him off again. Shifting my head, I free myself from Danny’s limpet like hold and try to concentrate on the words on the screen. Reading that he died of a sudden and catastrophic heart attack, I tell myself that there are far worse ways to go and that at least it was quick. According to the writer he’d still been being called on to consult with numerous law enforcement agencies the world over and that, having recently passed a gruelling fitness test that many men a decade or two younger would have struggled with, he’d still been in peak physical health. The heart attack just came out of nowhere and there was simply nothing that could have been done for him. I could be wrong, but I think he would have approved of his sudden passing. Better it be quick and of natural causes than by a bullet or suffering the indignity of living long enough to lose your faculties and wither to a tediously slow end in a nursing home. I know what I’d choose if given a choice.

“The funeral’s Friday,” Danny states, giving my shoulder a quick pat as he walks back to his desk and sinks down in his chair. “As I can’t recall the last time you took leave, you should go.”

“What? I… No. I… I don’t think,” I stammer, almost as taken aback by Danny’s suggestion as I was by learning of Malone’s death. “I… I… Uh… I couldn’t.”

“Why? Didn’t you like him?”

Of course he can’t just let it go and has to ask the question I don’t want to think about let alone have to answer. My instinctive reaction is to want to go to the funeral. It is, after all, the right thing to do and I feel I owe it to Malone, but… The mere thought of what I’d be walking into is enough to unnerve me far more than coming under a hail of bullets ever could. “No… It’s not like that at all,” I reply with a half hearted shrug. “I just… It’s just short notice, that’s all.”

“I’ll remember that then, shall I? To give you at least a fortnights notice before I pass on so you’ve got enough time to get your ass to my funeral,” Danny responds facetiously. “That’s a lame excuse and you know it. Oh, and if it’s work you’re worried about… Don’t. Getting someone in to cover you won’t be a problem. In fact… I may already have the perfect candidate in mind.”

Something in Danny’s voice telling me that he has an ulterior motive here, I look over the top of the computer monitor at him and, raising my eyebrow, wait for him to go on. “Yes? You were saying something about already having a perfect replacement for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Danny beams. “Remember that probationary agent we met at New Norfolk, Gonzales?”

Ah. Silly me. I should have known better than to think for a second it was for the good of the agency he was plotting and planning for. “The one with the big…?” I prompt, remembering the young agent – despite my own preferences – more for how she filled out her clothes and how Danny was always looking at her like a love-struck teenager than for her skills.

“That’s the one,” Danny confirms with a truly over the top leer. “Maria Gonzales. Her brother has just been stationed to the base here and I know she’s wanting to follow him. They’re orphans, you know, so they’re very close. In fact, if you were to take leave you’d actually be doing her a huge favour.”

“Only her?” I drawl, laughing as Danny feigns a hurt expression. “Oh! Sorry. Of course it’s her best interests you’re trying to look after here, not your… interest in… uh… getting to know her better at all. Forgive me, please, for assuming you were thinking with your…”

“You wound me with your filthy mind, you really do!” Danny exclaims, leaning over his desk and gesturing at me impatiently. “But, well, if the cap fits and all that… Now! Are you going to do the right thing and allow a sister to reunite with her brother by going to the funeral, or are you going to be a stubborn, selfish idiot?”

“I…” Damn. Teasing Danny about his libido I can handle, so why’d he have to go and spoil it by bringing up the subject of the funeral again? “I’ll have to think…” My phone suddenly ringing saving me, I flash a ‘well, what can I do?’ smile at Danny and pick up the handset. 

“NCIS, San Diego office, Special Agent Chris Keel speaking. How can I help you?”

~*~

Dropping the laptop on the sofa next to me, I stretch my legs out so that my feet are resting on the coffee table and gaze with absolutely no interest whatsoever up at the ceiling. Despite having just finished my third beer – surely the male equivalent of consulting the Tarot if ever there was one – I’m still no closer to reaching a decision about Malone’s funeral and not for the first time today wish I’d never got out of bed this morning. Ignorance as they say after all is indeed bliss. If Danny hadn’t been trawling the London Times online (and I still have no idea as to what he was doing there in the first place) I never would have known of Malone’s death and everything would have been much simpler. I could have carried on pretending I never gave London and CI5 five years of my life and…

Yeah.

To mess with a common saying here, having your head ripped unceremoniously from the sand – where you’ve made yourself quite comfortable and were more than content to stay – hurts. It hurts a lot. I don’t want to be in this position of doubt and confusion. Nor do I want memories that had been carefully and thoroughly hidden – most likely behind a wall of denial, but I don’t want to get into that either – to suddenly come rushing to the fore. London, along with every single aspect of my life that took place there, is in the past. And, having turned my back on it and left it all behind, I want it to stay that way. What I don’t know or don’t open myself up to can’t hurt me, right?

Only…

Deep down, not that I’ve fully admitted it to myself yet, I want to pay my last respects to Malone by attending his funeral. Having no firm opinions on the afterlife, I’m apt to accept that he won’t know I’m there and that essentially I’m only conforming to society's views regarding funeral attendance (if you have any feelings towards the deceased then, yes, it’s the done thing to do), but… I want to go. Just put it down to the way I was brought up and the somewhat sad fact that, having attended far more than most people my age, I hold a particular reverence for funerals.

That, and I really do feel as though I owe it to Malone.

He took a chance with me after the wedding and regardless of how things may have ultimately ended up, I doubt I’d be where I am today without his faith in me. He ignored the red warning flags in all the psych evaluations, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and, in the most basic of terms, extended a lifeline that I was in desperate need of. He also, in his own gruff way, looked out for me and ensured I kept focussed and on track. And, while definitely not in a warm and fuzzy way, more a begrudging, slightly surprised way, I was fond of him. He was, despite all the bitching and complaining we’d indulge in behind his back, a very good boss and I’ve never had another like him.

So, yes. I want to go to his funeral.

Wanting to go and actually raising the courage to go, however, are two separate things entirely.

Pathetically, if I thought I could get away with disguising myself to the point of being completely unrecognisable I wouldn’t hesitate and would have booked my flight already instead of – dithering – having spent the past ninety minutes staring blankly at the British Airways online booking screen on my laptop. But, and this is equally as pathetic, even that wouldn’t be ideal because while… those I’m wanting to avoid… might not be able to recognise me I’d still be able to see them and that, to my harried (and, yes, okay, embarrassed) way of thinking, is just as bad if not worse.

Really, it’s all just a huge mess. One that I haven’t allowed myself to think about since landing in Washington five years ago and one that, now it’s back in front of me and I can’t escape it, still has the ability to spin my entire world on its axis.

I reacted badly. Hell. I – reverted to form – over reacted. I know that, and in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have done what I did. But I did. I made my bed and I’ve been lying in it ignoring any and all alternative scenarios ever since. I even, both willingly and unquestioningly, accept the part I played in the whole sorry mess. It could have been handled better, on both sides, but it wasn’t and, well, life goes on. Having perfected the art form of never looking back, I don’t suffer greatly from regrets because I simply don’t allow myself to think of my time in London. It really is that closed-off and easy. I reacted the way I did because it made perfect sense to me and I burnt my proverbial bridge to the past for the very same reason. It all went wrong, I couldn’t have what I wanted, so instead of standing my ground and fighting for what I truly believed to be special, I packed my bags and left. 

And that, pretty much, was that.

I shut myself off from my – friends – past and I made yet another fresh start back in the States. I didn’t dwell on what I’d thrown away because – I may be pigheaded, but I’m not entirely stupid – I knew not only that it would hurt but also that it would be pointless. It was just better to put it all behind me and move on. In a perfect world the subject and the memories never would have come up again and I’d have been able to live out the rest of my dull and uninspiring existence in both blissful ignorance and relative peace. I may not have been particularly happy but, whatever, you get that. Again, it all made sense to me and it was far easier than opening myself up to the alternative.

Not that what happened was solely down to me. I played my part for sure, as did Sam, but most of it was actually out of our control and we simply didn’t handle it very it well. No. I lie. To say we didn’t handle it very well is over crediting things. We didn’t handle it. Period. End, of what had up until then been a good and rewarding story.

It wasn’t even one final, heart and mind shattering event. In other words, it wasn’t like the wedding all over again – for which, all things considered, I’m pitifully grateful – and was actually long enough coming that it could have been, if either of us had been mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with it, that is, stopped in its tracks. The warning signs were all there but they were just another unwanted distraction on top of everything else that was going – wrong – on and were easily enough ignored until it was too late.

We should have been strong enough to shake it all off and work our way through it. But we weren’t. It was too much over a far too short a period, we were too shell shocked from outside events and it all just disintegrated. Five years as partners, three as lovers – and we were both too weak to do anything about it collapsing around our ears.

Weak. Defeatist. 

Odd hats to wear given our profession and steely determination for all things work related, but there you go.

Assignments had gone horribly wrong (to this day I can’t think of Africa without being taken back to the relentless heat and expanse of the desert and how, more so than at any other point in my life, I was convinced I was going to die there) before. Relatives or other miscellaneous loved ones had fallen ill or been cause of concern before. Agents, sadly, had lost their life in the line of duty before. And Sam, randomly feeling the heavy weight of Malone’s bullshit ‘never become emotionally involved’ rule pressing down on his shoulders, had tried to push me away before. In differing forms and levels of intensity everything had happened at once before as well. It was just life. The life we’d chosen to lead and which, although it would no doubt disturb the great majority of the population, we pretty much accepted as normal.

This time, however, it was different.

Everything hit both hard and home with pinpoint accuracy. Over the incredibly short space of a month everything I took for granted and relied on collapsed around my ears and ultimately – as though I were little more than a puppet simply along for the ride – changed the course of my life. Too busy under normal circumstances doing everything I can to not think about it though, I don’t hold a grudge. It just all happened.

Shit happens.

I can’t change it, so why think about it?

God knows if Danny hadn’t informed me of Malone’s passing that I wouldn’t be thinking about it now.

Having to settle on one particular aspect as the starting point, I’d say the cracks – personally, anyway – began to appear when my grandmother broke her hip. I’d always been close to her and knowing that she’d lain on the floor of her house for a day before being able to call out to the postman for help really… upset me. Nursing staff at the hospital she’d been taken to assured me that she’d heal and in time be able to walk again but the social worker was more pragmatic about her long term prognosis and warned me that the day was soon coming that, for her own well-being, she’d need to start looking for nursing home accommodation. 

As if this – my proud, independent grandmother having to give up the home she’d lived in all her married life in order to move to a nursing home – wasn’t a big enough shock, my cousin’s trailer trash wife, Sugar, suddenly entered the equation and tried to get my grandmother to revoke the Power of Attorney she’d entrusted to me in favour of having herself appointed. Ralph, my dim witted yet essentially harmless cousin, was actually the one to share this… gem… of money grabbing manipulation with me and he did so because he honestly thought I’d be happy that Sugar was offering to relieve me of my ‘burden’.

Happy! Happy that a bottle blonde with a penchant for spandex, bubblegum and huge plastic hoop earrings was wanting to avail herself to our grandmother’s estate because she had dollar signs glittering before her overly made-up eyes and could no doubt picture herself behind the wheel of a shiny new pickup truck or Winnebago? Oh, hell yeah. I was ecstatic with the thought. What also impressed me was Ralph’s use of the word ‘burden’ – Sugar’s coaching, of that I’m as certain as the fact night follows day – and how I was meant to be relieved by their altruistic kindness. Not only were they doing it for me but they were also doing it for my grandmother because, unlike I, the international jet-setter, they actually lived in the same state as her and were there on the ground to cater to her every need.

Now, if a sensible cousin – as in not one who’d never been able to hold down a job and who wasn’t married to a skank who actually listed Anna Nicole Smith as her own personal hero – had asked to take over the Power of Attorney there’s a good chance I would have considered it. I was, after all, hundreds of miles away and frequently uncontactable and there was no denying I didn’t get to see my grandmother as often as I would have liked. So, yes. So long as it was in her best interests and she herself was agreeable to the change I wouldn’t have hesitated over making arrangements with our lawyer to amend the documents. 

Appointing Ralph and Sugar though? Not while I still had breath left in my body.

The phone calls and emails getting too much for me, I wanted to fly back to Washington to see my grandmother and to – have a screaming match with Sugar if need be – sort everything out once and for all and had just started to look into flights when Malone came out of his office and, with perfect timing, handed Sam and I a new assignment. My mind already elsewhere I probably should have asked for it to be given to the next agents in line. Malone, for all his gruffness and stiff upper lip exterior, understood that on the very rare occasion there were things happening in life other than work and would have, I suspect (even if it did mean I owed him big-time in the future), accepted – just this once – that it was actually in CI5’s best interests to send another team. I’d already, leaving out no detail or missing an opportunity to direct a spot of vitriol towards Sugar, been keeping Sam up to speed with everything going on with my grandmother and, given that I think he’d been prepared to come to Washington with me whenever I bit the bullet and finally decided to go, I know he would have backed up my reasons for passing on the assignment.

Did I, however, say anything to Malone? Of course not. Foolishly, instead of erring on the side of common sense and caution I decided that an assignment was just what I needed. My grandmother was receiving the best possible care in hospital and my lawyer was watching the stupendously stupid Sugar like a hawk. I told myself that everything was in hand and that I’d go over for a visit once the case had been finalised. Besides, if I was busily engrossed in the task of bringing some assholes trafficking weapons bought with drug and human slavery money to justice I wouldn’t have time to worry about anything else.

I thought I was being sensible.

Did, however, everything go pear shaped pretty much from the moment we landed in Russia? Why, of course it fucking did.

From flat tyres to being shot at by idiots with machine guns who had nothing whatsoever to do with the case but whose territory we’d inadvertently stumbled into. From torrential rain to weapons seizing up at the worst possible moment. If there was a way for it to go wrong, it did. And each consequence was always worse than the last.

As assignments go it really was a bitch from the very beginning to the very – drugged up and hospitalised – end.

The two weeks we spent in Russia were both the worst of my life and the biggest debacle of Malone’s distinguished career. Sam and I weren’t to blame though and nor were CI5. We did everything as best we could. It was all down to the fabricated intel we were being fed and the corrupt officials who instead of working with us were in cohorts with the cartel and working against us.

Not that we knew this at the time. Of course not.

We were too busy attempting to stay alive to cast doubts on those that were meant to be assisting us and it wasn’t until the blindfold was – literally – ripped from my eyes and I saw that my captor was non other than our so-called official interpreter that I knew just how deeply we’d been screwed.

With military forethought and precision they abducted Sam first. This was smart for two reasons. Not only did I rely on my partner for his language skills and knowledge of local customs a lot more than I did on the interpreter but I was also known to be far more… flighty… and emotional than Sam and they knew that instead of focussing on the case I’d throw all my focus and energy into finding him. Which, regardless of both knowing I was playing right into their plan and that I was well and truly running the risk of pissing off Malone, is exactly what I did. Sam was my best friend and my lover, of course locating him was my first priority and, anything to keep the doubts, fear and self-recrimination quiet in my head, I threw myself into the task like a man possessed. 

It just about being par for the fucking course in respect to the mission from hell though, my dogged determination to find Sam took me too close to the ones masterminding the entire operation and, not liking this, I was captured as well. And, not exactly surprising, that was when things hit their lowest ebb. Wanting to know what, if any, information I’d sent back to London they brought their favourite torturer out of retirement to -- play with me – try and make me talk and to this day what he put me through still haunts my nightmares. I still have the scars on my body and a left arm that aches in the cold weather to prove what I survived as well.

The physical strain I was under while being held captive was nothing compared to the mental one though. The pain usually stopped eventually but the fear I had for Sam’s safety was constant. I didn’t know where he was, whether he was being treated the same way I was, or even whether he was still alive and that, the not knowing, kept me in a greater sense of terror than the torture. Although I never asked and no one ever felt compelled to inform me, I think I was there in the cold and dank basement for something like four days. The mind being a powerful protector, I don’t remember, not in clear detail anyway, much of what I went through. In fact, while the fear and torture blur, only two events remain as clear as the moment they originally happened.

One was the breaking of my arm. I remember that because, amongst all the other small and not so small ways of causing pain, it was something completely unexpected. It also hurt more than anything else he’d done to me and, not that I needed it, gave me yet another thing to worry about because I knew not only that the break would give him something fresh to niggle at but also that if too much time passed before I was able to have it looked at that there’d be risk of long term complications. There was one peculiar benefit from the pain caused by the break – not that it’s one I’d actually recommend to anyone – and that was it more or less put paid to the rare lucid moments I’d been unfortunate enough to be experiencing every now and then and replaced them with some truly alarming hallucinations. In a completely warped way I welcomed the hallucinations – as I was still able to retain enough sense to know that’s what they were and that they weren’t real – because they were preferable to the claustrophobic and bleak reality.

The second event I remember clearly – once that is I’d finally grasped that what I was witnessing wasn’t yet another hallucination and was in fact gloriously real – was Sam appearing out of nowhere and, with back up in tow, coming to my rescue. While not looking in much better condition than me, he’d still somehow managed to break free of his captors and raise the alarm before throwing himself into the task of searching for me. I remember thinking, as Sam shot the wretched torturer between the eyes and hurried over to me, that I’d never seen a more wonderful sight.

It, the entire Russian assignment, was a disaster from the very beginning. Half of the suspects disappeared into the underground and Sam and I ended up in hospital – Malone, although he hid it behind a benign smile and a token bouquet of flowers delivered to our hospital beds, was not impressed. My arm having to be broken again in order for it to be set properly, just for the cherry on top of everything else, I can’t say I was exactly over the moon about any of it myself. Sam thankfully, although he’d certainly endured his own ordeal at the hands of the assholes who’d abducted him, wasn’t as badly injured as I was and was able to leave hospital first which, as it turned out, wasn’t all that impressive either.

I should have known what was coming when, standing at the foot of my bed, he wouldn’t look me in the eye while offering his bland farewells and textbook platitudes regarding how I’d surely be back on my feet in no time and how he’d be waiting for me. God knows it was a look I’d seen enough times to be familiar with and can only put my lack of immediate recognition down to the cocktail of drugs being pumped into me by the doctors. They must have dulled my senses or, alternatively, lulled me into a false sense of security. If I’d been on my game I would have seen it and, having had enough practice, been able to nip it in the bud or, at the very least, brace myself to fight it.

I was far from being on my game though, I missed the signs and when it came it really was the final fucking straw. 

Sam may have changed his mind on his own accord – as he occasionally had in the past – if another CI5 assignment hadn’t gone so horrifically wrong and a young agent hadn’t lost his life.

Cameron Taylor was both our youngest and newest agent. I liked him a lot. I never thought he was particularly suited to the job though and hoped, both for his own sake and the benefit of the agency in general, he’d get his ‘action hero’ kicks out of his system pretty quickly before settling down into a stellar career in information analysis. He was bright and fit and spoke almost as many languages as Sam but… He lacked, I don’t know, the cold professionalism – shoot first and possibly, assuming you were having a bad day and only wounded the target instead of killing him, ask questions later – that I honestly believe to be essential in that line of work. He was a crack shot and he knew his weapons, but being out in the field simply wasn’t his forte. Put him in front of a computer with intel reports coming in thick and fast from all over the world however, well, then he was in his element and he had an almost unerring ability to highlight the most important nugget of information with seemingly effortless ease. I think, not that he ever said so in as many words, that being out of the office on assignment terrified him and he only did it because he thought it was expected of him and that by proving himself in the field was the only way to get ahead.

Simply by looking around him he should have known better, Spencer commanded a lot of respect in the agency and was Malone’s ‘go to’ agent when Backup wasn’t available, yet he hardly ever left the safe confines of headquarters. Taylor should have looked up to Spencer as an example of how he could play a worthwhile part in CI5 without having to force himself to go out in the field. In the days that followed his death I couldn’t help but wonder if I was somehow to blame, that if only I’d talked up how important we all felt Spencer’s contribution was or simply came straight out and told him that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with pursuing an ‘office bound’ career. It wasn’t really my place, as we’d never worked on an assignment together, and Malone had never voiced an opinion on the subject, but… You know, as always, if you can fit a spot of not at all fact based self-flagellation around your busy schedule of mourning and worrying, then… go for it. 

I was still in hospital when the news of Taylor’s death filtered through. His body had been fished out of the Seine and was so badly decomposed that it was only through dental records that he’d been able to be identified. Not even having been aware that he was missing, the news of his murder stunned me. Sam and I could have easily have died in Russia, Taylor had lost his life in Paris performing what was meant to have been a run of the mill security detail… Just… What was the job coming to? And Taylor… He was so young and he had his whole life ahead of him. His murder was simply a tragedy and, on top of what we’d been through, it made me, not that I wanted to, question whether I still had it in me to continue putting my life on the line. Failing that, whether I could keep dealing with knowing that those I cared about were in constant danger just for doing their job.

It was just… Suddenly it was all just too much. The stress of Sam going missing and not knowing whether he was even still alive, the physical and mental torture, the worry over my grandmother’s health, Taylor’s death, knowing that I had weeks if not months of rehabilitation and psych evaluations staring me in the face before being declared fit for duty… All I wanted was to get out of hospital and be with Sam. Time away from CI5, time spent away from everything with my lover, a quick trip to Washington to see my grandmother – that’s all I wanted. I didn’t think it was asking too much.

What I got however…

Well.

I discharged myself from hospital – against the doctor’s wishes, of course – the day of Taylor’s funeral. The pain killer and sleeping pill regime had been perfected, sessions with the physiotherapist had been booked, promises had been extracted that I would in time regain full use of my arm – so as far as I was concerned my latest hospital stay had well and truly come to an end. Besides, I doubted there was much they could do for my mental state anyway. Ill grandmother, tortured, dreadful loss of a fellow agent, constant pain, nightmares, lover avoiding me like I was some sort of plague carrier… Life was just peachy.

Sam, who dealt with his emotions about as well as a claustrophobic would deal with a toilet on a Boeing 747, had given me the cold shoulder routine on frequent occasions throughout our three year relationship. At first the in-your-face one night stands or mumbled lectures on how we needed to take a break from each other used to freak me out. Over time though I simply adapted to Sam’s fucked up way of dealing with things and either ignored his by-the-number plays or just gave him a week or two to himself. It worked. Having applied logic and reason to his latest meltdown (my word, not his), Sam would come to his senses and we’d simply go on as though nothing had happened. It might not have been ideal and again, in the early days it did actually upset me, but I could deal with Sam’s random… moments… and the good times always outweighed the bad.

As he hadn’t been to see me since leaving the hospital three days prior, I knew Sam had to be revving up to launch his latest attempt to push me away. The debacle in Russia would have effected him, he wouldn’t like – not that he’d ever admit it – seeing me hurt, the shock of Taylor’s death would be lingering in the back of his mind and all that, to Sam anyway, would add up to him believing he’d be better off alone, that, why yes, Mr Malone, becoming emotionally involved is indeed a terribly bad idea, one that one is simply far better off avoiding.

I could see it coming and I honestly believed I had it in me to fight off Sam’s doubts and that, as always, things would quickly revert to normal. I even forgave him for retreating into himself and not coming to see me in hospital when, really, having him by my side would have helped cheer me up no end. Having worked it all out in the past, I was confident everything would settle back down, Sam would realise life wasn’t all that much fun on your own and that would be just that.

Mind you, I also thought, as I stood clutching my bag of prescription drugs, that it would be Sam who came to pick me up from the hospital. I’d asked Backup to ask him – because when he was in one of those moods it was pointless calling him – to bring me in a black suit so I could go straight from the hospital to the chapel and, stupidly, I expected him to momentarily pull himself together for the purpose of presenting an united front – appearances, after all, being all important – at Taylor’s funeral. What I most definitely didn’t expect was for him to dutifully go into my apartment, put together a suitably sombre outfit as requested… and then give it to Backup to pass on to me. 

Knowing instinctively that she was in the middle of something she really didn’t want to be in the middle of, Backup not very convincingly tried to justify Sam’s no show with some bullshit about him wanting to get to the church early to oversee preparations – meaning what, he was suddenly thinking of changing career to that of a funeral director? – but, a heavy emptiness settling over me, I hardly heard a word she said. If he couldn’t even get his head out of his own ass to help me, the invalid, get ready for a funeral of all things, then… it didn’t bode well. I’d always known that the day was going to suck, but having it start with Sam so blatantly avoiding me was… like crossing the point of no return.

Numb, but not numb enough, I swallowed two painkillers – despite not being due any for another two hours – before walking into the chapel. Sam had carefully ensured that he was already seated in a full pew and I noted this with an almost clinical detachment as, looking increasingly worried, Backup led me to a pew on the other side of the aisle. As though I was little more than a casual observer, I remember enough about the service to say it was truly lovely. The hymns were sung well, the incense was strong enough for those of a stiff upper lip nature to blame their red eyes on, the eulogy was both engrossing and touching and… drugged to the eyeballs, I sat there like a zombie. Taylor certainly deserved better and, now that I think about it, a small part of me still resents Sam for his fucking awful timing. He’d made his mind up, so it’s not like keeping the façade up for one extra lousy day would have killed him.

Between the service in the chapel and the burial I made the mistake of checking my phone and discovered that I’d missed two calls. One from the hospital in Washington where my grandmother was and the other was from her lawyer. Not having the time to return either call, I worried about what might have happened and what they were wanting to tell me to such an extent that I can’t remember a single thing about the graveside service. I suspect I probably stood next to Backup and that she would have kept her arm linked around my elbow the entire time in case – I did actually feel as bad as I no doubt looked – fell over. Sam probably stood on the other side of the burial plot or, failing that, as far away from me as he could possibly get. But, again, I honestly have no recollection of it. It could have been pouring with rain and blowing a gale force wind for all I can recall.

My concern over what was going on in Washington momentarily taking precedence over the whole Sam ‘thing’, I broke away from Backup’s mother hen like guard over me once we got to the hall where the wake was being held and, with my fingers mentally crossed, returned both the calls. As I’d known it would be, the news was bad and I was still reeling from it when Sam, braced with a scotch or two, decided that the time had come to get his ever-so-logical feelings off his chest. Forgetting for a split second his current behaviour towards me and just seeing my lover, someone who I’d always relied on, I tried to tell him that my grandmother had developed pneumonia and that my stupid cousin’s stupid wife was making a nuisance of herself at the hospital but it was like I wasn’t even speaking as he just talked over the top of me.

And…

Realising that at this exact point of time it was all about Sam and that all I happened to be was his audience of one, I…

I gave up. Accepting that I couldn’t win and that Sam had made his mind up and was determined to see it through, I waved the white flag of surrender, shut my mouth and… just let him go. If we hadn’t been at a wake of all fucking places I may have started shouting and made one hell of a scene. Knowing Sam and his love of meticulous planning though he would have specifically chosen the location in order to keep me under control and, hey, it worked.

He even acknowledged that the location wasn’t ideal and, going through the motions with choreographed and practised perfection, actually had the nerve to apologise for ‘not being able to wait any longer’. What’s more, apparently he was doing it all for me. The reason he’d chosen Taylor’s wake to hit me with his little heart-to-heart was because I… deserved better. Instead of putting off ‘coming clean’ with his ‘realisation’ it was better – for me, of course – to get it out in the open so we could both move on instead of dragging things out. Oh… And it was better to clear the air sooner rather than later because I had a number of sessions with the psychiatrist coming up and, if need be, I could discuss any feelings I had with them.

Any feelings I had? Dear God. My lover was dumping me at a wake while I tried to come to terms with the knowledge my grandmother had fluid on her lungs and was possibly dying in a hospital many, many miles away.

If anyone had been around to witness us it would have been like watching a bad play.

I sat on a sofa staring blankly at Sam as he alternated between pacing in front of me and, when he really wanted to impress on me that, why, yes, this was indeed hard for him too, sitting next to me and clutching his hand around my knee. Throughout the whole performance I didn’t say a word. Not even when he hit me with his… coup de grace. 

If the build up hadn’t been so bad and he’d tried it on me during one of his usual ill thought out… bids for freedom… I probably would have laughed. It was just that out of left field and, quite frankly, almost pathetically ludicrous.

To Sam though, at the time at least, it was both carefully thought out and imminently sensible.

Recent events had caused him to rethink what he wanted from life and he’d realised that what he felt he most wanted was to reach for the upper echelons of his chosen career. Being an agent was all well and good, but he suspected he had far more to offer and that perhaps there’d be no reason why he couldn’t strive for a top position like Malone or high up in MI6. To achieve this however – and he assured me that he’d done some research into the subject, that he wasn’t just making it up because he was shit scared of his emotions and didn’t know how to deal with them – he firmly believed that he needed to present as part of the establishment… As straight, in other words, and that his goals were simply going to forever remain out of reach if we were to stay together. And, yes, perhaps the time had come to consider settling down with a wife and popping out a few children. You know, just to really fit into the desired demographic.

He spoke well, of course. Sam always spoke well. It was one of his true skills. Beautiful voice, just the right amount of eye contact and always suitable and apt facial expressions. He even managed to dredge up a tear during the whole ‘I was a great guy that he’d always love and how he hoped we could still be friends’ speech. I watched it glide down his cheek and felt… nothing. Not even the blatant absurdity of suddenly wanting a wife and kids. Understanding bisexuality, I could just about handle the wife thing, but children? No way. In all the time I’d known Sam I hadn’t once heard him say a nice thing about children in general and whenever the subject of having some had come up he’d always firmly declared how pleased he was that he was never going to be responsible for inflicting any on the world – could penetrate through the sense of heavy numbness I was feeling.

I’d known what was surely coming and I’d thought I could fight it. Now that the moment was here though I just didn’t care. If Sam wanted to act like a bastard then that was his choice. Just as it was my choice to accept his excuses at face value, give up and walk away. There were a lot of things I could have done, most of which I probably would have been able do quietly enough to not risk drawing a crowd, but lacking both the energy and the inclination I didn’t really do much at all.

With Sam looking at me both stoically and expectantly, I stood up, kissed his cheek, whispered ‘fuck you’ in his ear and walked off. He didn’t follow, I didn’t look back and it was the last time I saw him.

My, small though it was, piece said, I left the wake without saying goodbye to anyone and, finally catching a break, climbed straight into a cab that had just dropped a couple off. Like Sam, I’d made my mind up about my future and, there being no time like the – fractured – present, I was setting it immediately in motion.

An eerie, almost unnatural sense of calm descending on me and keeping me focussed in a way I can’t say I’ve ever experienced before or since, I phoned the real estate agent I’d bought my apartment from five years earlier as the driver took me home and asked her to meet me there. Unable to think of a reason to stay, I was returning to the States and I was doing so as quickly as I could possibly manage. I didn’t want to sleep on it or give Backup a chance to talk me out of it – I just wanted to go… and I wanted to go for good. It was all very spur of the moment and there’s no doubt I could have handled it better, but I’d just had enough. All the good times I’d spent in London and how much many of the people there meant to me (not to mention how welcoming they’d been to me when I arrived and how I honestly viewed a few of them as a second family) didn’t so much as rate a fleeting mention as I threw myself into getting the fuck out of there.

The real estate agent, a lovely middle aged lady who I don’t think knew what she was getting herself into, trailed along behind me agreeing to all the requests I rattled off as soon as they passed through my mind while I threw clothes, toiletries and a few special mementos into the largest suitcase I could find. Yes, she’d organise for all my remaining personal items to be shipped to my grandmother’s address. Yes, she’d arrange for a professional cleaner to come through and spruce everything up before putting the apartment up for rent. Of course it was okay to leave all the furniture as fully furnished apartments were always snapped up by eager renters. 

I could have, given that I knew I was pulling the door very firmly closed behind me on my life in London the second I stepped onto the plane, put the apartment up for sale instead of deciding to rent it out but for some reason I decided to just keep it. Perhaps my grandfather’s assertions that property was by far the best investment of all guided me and I simply chose to keep it for its monetary value. Who knows? All I do know is that five years on I still have no intention of selling it and always pay a high degree of attention to the reports forwarded biannually from the real estate agent regarding its condition and the reliability of the renters. Silly, really, seeing as I’ve never allowed myself to entertain the idea of ever living there again, but there you go.

My apartment and belongings sorted and my bag packed, I thanked the real estate lady, ignored her pointed look of concern – arm in cast, fresh from hospital, dark circles under dull eyes… I’d have looked a fright, that’s for sure – and caught a cab to Heathrow. There, with my phone still off and messages from Backup mounting at a great rate, I booked a first class seat on the first flight to Washington and headed for the quiet efficiency of the frequent flyer lounge. Having one last tie to cut, and, again, refusing to entertain the idea of possibly taking a step back for a day or two to think things through more clearly, I availed myself to a free computer and printer and addressed a letter of resignation to Malone. That done, I placed it and my CI5 identification into an envelope and sought every reassurance imaginable from the woman manning the counter that a courier would be arranged to take it to its destination the following morning.

And that was that. London, CI5, Sam… It was all over.

I could have gone to Washington, sorted things out with my grandmother, cooled down and regrouped before returning to London and either fronting Sam or simply asking Malone for a new partner but I chose instead to put it all behind me and move on. As hurt as I was by Sam’s behaviour, by throwing myself into upending my entire life I was able to keep busy enough to not dwell on things and that, I’m positive, is how I was able to get through. I never, not even while lying in bed at night waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in, dwelt on the past and always concentrated on looking forward. It didn’t even matter if I didn’t have anything to particularly look forward to… so long as I kept looking ahead and not back.

My grandmother, thankfully, took a turn for the better once I was in Washington and within a couple of weeks I had her quite contentedly settled in a lovely nursing home not far away from where she’d lived for so long. Sugar, realising that she didn’t stand a chance now that I was back in town, slunk off without a fight which, to be honest, I found a little depressing as I’d almost been looking forward to having it out with her. My arm healed as well as could be expected and, needing something to occupy myself with, I took a job as a sort of multi-skilled consultant for the F.B.I. at Quantico. It was close to Washington where, as she’d insisted and wouldn’t take no for an answer, I was staying in my grandmother’s house and it kept me in touch with what was going on in the world of international law enforcement.

Malone, although I never heard from him and I have no idea what he would have thought of seeing my resignation land without warning on his desk, was magnanimous enough to write a good reference for me and I would think I’d have that to thank for the ease in which I got accepted at Quantico. Staying in one spot after having travelled all around the world on assignment was a little dull to begin with but I adapted to it and liked being able to spend so much time with my grandmother. Not wanting to mistakenly answer the phone one day only to find Backup on the end – when I choose to start afresh I really do it well – I changed my number and to this day have never had contact with anyone from my time in London. In the early days the occasional letter postmarked London would arrive but I never opened them and always sent them back with ‘not at this address’ scrawled across the envelope. There were times when I missed my friends and wondered what they were up to, but I never did anything about it and eventually stopped thinking about them at all.

When my grandmother died two years later I decided that Washington was no longer for me – it wasn’t the same without her and nor did it feel right living in her house – and, after toying with and discarding the idea of returning to the Navy proper, moved to San Diego to take up a job in the South West Field Office of NCIS as a Special Agent. Although to some it would have been an unusual welcome to a new job, my first task was to be deployed on the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz as the Agent at Sea. Not having been on a ship for a very long time, I loved it and knew beyond all doubt that I’d made the right move.

Back on dry land eight months later I bought the house I’m sitting in now, settled into NCIS and got on with quietly living my life. That was just under three years ago and here I still am. Still with NCIS and still refusing to think about either my time in London or what I left behind there. 

Well, that is up until this morning I wasn’t thinking about it.

Now however it’s all I can think about.

Can I do it though?

Can I do what I know in myself is the right thing to do and go to Malone’s funeral even though it will mean seeing, and dealing with, everyone I turned my back on all those years ago? 

~*~ 

“You’re leaving me.”

Ignoring both Phil’s mournful expression and his borderline teary statement, I scowl and gesture at the laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. “What are you doing poking around in my computer?” I query calmly, not wanting to get into it with Phil but, at the same time, unwilling to just stand here and take whatever it is he’s about to throw at me.

“Oh, I thought it was mine,” Phil replies with a wounded sniff as he scrunches down on the sofa and hugs his beefy arms around himself. “But… Don’t try to change the subject! You’re… you’re leaving me and…”

“I’m not leaving you,” I interrupt flatly, hesitating over going to comfort Phil because A, I’m really not in the mood and B, as he has an Apple laptop and mine’s a Toshiba, I know he’s lying through his teeth about having accidentally picked it up because there’s no way in hell you can mix the two of them up. “Don’t be so stupid.”

Sniffing again, Phil unfolds himself slightly and points at the laptop. “Don’t lie and don’t try to hide it from me. I… I saw it for myself!”

“Saw what?” I mutter, sighing as I lean against the living room wall and idly wishing I hadn’t left the laptop lying around when, suddenly having had enough of being inside, I’d decided to go for a walk. Not that I ever would have contemplated Phil being sneaky enough to… go through it, checking up on me, but… If only I’d put it away I wouldn’t be having this, for the want of a better description, conversation and…

Yeah.

Whatever.

At the risk of it becoming my motto, what’s done is done and all that.

“You’re going to London!” Phil exclaims, jumping to his feet and hurrying over to me. “Without me!” he adds, clutching his hands around the front of my t-shirt and giving me an imploring look. “How… How could you!”

Unsure as to what’s annoying me more, his spying on me, his over reaction, or his truly rank breath as he paws at my t-shirt and breathes all over me, I bat his hands away and push past him. “If you must know,” I grind out as I turn around to face him, “I’m going to London for a funeral and, if you’d given me a chance, I was going to tell you about it tonight.”

“It’s a one-way ticket!” Phil wails, looking more and more dejected by the second which, given his muscles and love of the tanning bed, is no mean feat. “You’re leaving me and… and you don’t even have the decency to come out and say it!”

“Oh, trust me. If I was leaving you you’d know all about it!” I snap, no longer caring if I inflame the situation or not. I don’t want to fight with Phil, and nor do I want to upset him, but… Seriously. I’m far from being in the mood to deal with his theatrics and just wish he’d get a fucking grip already. Reaching the decision to – brave both my past and my past mistakes – go to Malone’s funeral was hard enough without having to put up with Phil making a mountain out of a non existent molehill. “Just… For God’s sake, Phil! Chill, already. I’m not leaving you and, as I mentioned already, am having to go to London to attend the funeral of my old boss. As for why it’s a one-way ticket… Well… I really only just decided to go and, as the funeral is Friday, the most pressing thing at the moment is to actually get there. I’ll worry about getting back another day.”

“Getting back,” Phil echoes, angrily wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “You couldn’t even bring yourself to say home… getting home. You’re leaving me, I know it!”

“I’m not fucking leaving you!” I retort, glaring at Phil as common sense tells me that adding ‘but if you keep this up I will’ probably wouldn’t be the way to go. “If you’d waited for me to explain everything to you instead of going through my computer you wouldn’t be in this… mess… and…”

“You’re not leaving me?” Phil sniffs, cutting me off as he slumps against the wall. “You’re… not just saying it?”

“I’m not just saying it,” I sigh, hoping that the worst of it is over and forcing myself to walk over to Phil. “I am going to London to attend a funeral,” I continue, lightly placing my hand on his shoulder, “but I’ll most definitely be back and I want you to get this paranoid notion out of your head and calm down. I may be gone for a week or I may be back as early as Sunday. I just don’t know yet.”

I’m still not entirely sure myself why I’ve only booked a one-way flight and two weeks accommodation at a partly serviced apartment in Kensington. While I’m not deluding myself in respect to the reception I’m likely to receive from my old friends – some of whom I’m sure can forgive a lot, but being so coldly shut out and abandoned? That I would think is pushing it – I can’t deny that I loved London while I lived there and suspect that, once there, I’ll probably want to be able to take the time to reacquaint myself with some of my favourite old haunts. Failing that, maybe I’m not being entirely honest with myself and just want an excuse to be away from Phil.

Not, funnily enough, that I’m going to share that particular possibility with him.

“You’ll be back?” Phil queries with a hopeful smile as he straightens up and suddenly flings his arms around me. “Oh God, Chris… You scared me so much! When I saw the ticket confirmation I was sure that you were leaving me and I… I just couldn’t cope if that were the case! I love you so much that…”

“I’ll be back and I’m not leaving you,” I murmur as, wanting this to be over and done with, I return Phil’s hug for a few seconds before pulling free and taking a step back. “I’m flying out tomorrow and you have my word that I’ll give you a call when I’m coming back. There was nothing… secretive… about this at all and I was going to tell you about when I saw you.”

“I’m sorry for making a fuss out of nothing,” Phil beams happily, his equilibrium obviously having been restored. “Of course you’re not leaving me. I can’t believe I was silly enough to even think such a thing in the first place. You enjoy yourself in London, you hear. I’ll be fine and counting the sleeps until I see you again.”

“Uh-huh.” Smiling blandly, I look at Phil and somehow resist the urge to sadly shake my head. I’m sure I mentioned the word funeral a couple of times, yet he wants me to enjoy myself? I’d ask if he truly grasped everything I’d told him but, seriously, it’s not really something I want to know the answer to.

“Well! Now that that’s all cleared up, I’m off to the gym,” Phil announces cheerfully, looking at me hopefully. “Care to join me?”

“Er… No.” Realising that I couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if I tried, I dredge up a wan smile and try again. “Thanks for the offer but, no… I’ve got a few more things to sort out before leaving tomorrow. You go though. I’ll be waiting for you when you get ba… uh… home.” 

“Okay!” His earlier paranoia already being a thing of the past, Phil bounds up to me as I continue to stand flat footed by the coffee table and gives me wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Love you! Catch you later!”

“See you,” I mutter, waiting until he’s disappeared through the door before wiping the back of my hand across my cheek and walking over to the sofa. Sinking down onto it, I stare glumly at my laptop and sigh. Although my flight’s quite early in the morning and I should be packing, I decide to just sit for a while and swing my feet up onto the edge of the coffee table. 

Just… What a day.

Whether it was because he only thought it was in my best interests or whether he was simply looking after himself and his desire to get – into the pants of – Agent Gonzales to San Diego, Danny obviously took it upon himself to draw Director Moore’s attention to both the passing of my former Commander and my indecision over attending his funeral as the Director himself took me aside this morning and informed me that cover for my leave had all been taken care of and that he only wished I was taking it for a more pleasant occasion. Talk about having the decision effectively taken out of my hands. Although I’d still been dithering and procrastinating, once the Director became involved I could hardly say no and, just like that, I was suddenly going to London. I can’t say I’m feeling any more confident about it than I was when I couldn’t make my mind up but, well, that’s now largely irrelevant. I’m going. I’m going to London and, because I’ll be there, I’m going to the funeral. What happens next, however, is anyone’s guess.

The worry over my inability to decide, the decision eventually being taken from me, the pain caused by the reawakening off all the memories I’ve fought so hard to keep buried, the fear of what I may be walking into in London… Personally, I feel all of that is more than enough to contend with at the moment without Phil and his recent predilection for paranoia wading in and joining the party as well. That, I well and truly could have lived without and, while it hadn’t even been something I’d contemplated, I now have to confess to suddenly looking forward to being free from Phil for the next however many days.

Along with so many other things, I just wish I knew what to do about Phil as I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that things just can’t keep going on as they have been. They were fine to begin with, and during the early days I’d even go so far as to say they were good, but for the past few months they’ve just been going downhill. Ever since he turned into a gym junkie four or so months back, he’s changed, not just physically but mentally as well. Although we first met at the gym and he’d always taken care of both his body and fitness, now it’s as though he’s obsessed with creating the perfect, in his mind anyway, physique. The kitchen is full of protein bars and power shakes, he spends hours in the solarium and muscles are popping up all over his body at a truly alarming rate. On the rare occasions I pause to think about it I can’t help but feel they’re appearing too quickly and wonder if he’s following the slippery path of steroids, but… It’s his life, not mine, so I don’t say anything. 

The mood swings and jealousy though, they’re a new addition and not natural. I came home late one night last week and the grilling I got over whether I’d been out with someone else made today’s tearful delusion that I was leaving him seem positively mild by comparison. I know I should say something, that my silence is probably doing him more harm than good, but I just bury my head in the sand and let it all slide.

Phil loves me, of that there’s no doubt, but I don’t love him. I want to, and God knows I’ve tried, but I just don’t. I’m fond of him, there was a time not so long ago that I really enjoyed his company and I honestly want what’s best for him, but that’s about it, really. If asked, he’d refer to me as his boyfriend, lover or partner. Whereas to me, well, to me he’s just, at best, a live in lover. He shares my house and quite frequently my bed and… that’s it. We’re friends, but I feel closer to Danny in terms of being able to talk about anything to him, and I don’t think about him or miss him when we’re apart. 

Some would probably be of the opinion that I’m being cruel to him and that I should just sit him down and gently set him straight. There are days when I want to do it too. It’s just not that simple though. Part of me feels that the early days of our relationship were so good that I owe it to him to give him another chance, to try harder to develop feelings of love for him. Then there’s the fact that he’s currently living with me because he has nowhere else to go. A fire in his apartment block having caused extensive smoke damage to his apartment, I invited him to share my house while he tried to save a deposit for a new place and, eight months on, he’s still here. As the house is far too large for just one person, it hasn’t bothered me having him around – in fact, given that he’s both tidier and a better cook than me, you could say it’s even been quite useful – so, in a way, another reason I keep my feelings to myself is to keep the status quo. 

I have someone to come home to – that, until the gym obsession started, was actually quite pleasant and we really have had some enjoyable times together – and he gets a roof over his head. Okay, said roof belongs to someone he honestly believes he loves and who should, really, be more honest with him about his own feelings, but… It could be worse, I’m sure of it. It can’t go on indefinitely though, and I know that too. Up until just recently however it’s been working fine for both of us. The sex has been fine, I’d liked having someone to come home to and, possibly having low expectations these days, it probably could have gone on forever if not for Phil suddenly discovering his life was incomplete without having a super tanned, overly muscly body instead of a pale, vaguely toned one.

The changes in his personality – from mild mannered accountant to jealous control freak – have to be down to some form of anabolic steroid abuse. I’ve done enough courses on the damn things to be fairly confident of the signs but, and I did actually search through the house a couple of weeks ago, I’m yet to come across any proof. So, I do what I’m really rather good at, and simply ignore what’s happening and hope for a positive outcome to be achieved without any actual effort on my part. Phil spends most of his time at the gym these days, so it’s not as though I actually get to spend a lot of time with him anyway. If I’m lucky maybe the gym will be raided while I’m in London and he’ll get a wake up call that way.

Alternatively, and I can’t say I’m a great fan of this option, I’ll actually have to do something about it myself when I get back. Ignoring Phil’s newly discovered green-eyed Muscle Mary side, I could probably go on this way indefinitely but, and this is why I’m going to ultimately have to do something, it’s just not fair to him. Even if it turns out to be a fellow gym junkie with a thing for protein bars, he deserves better than the half-hearted relationship I’m keeping him trapped in.

So, hey. There you go. I’ve just got so much to look forward to in my life at the moment that I’m spoilt for choice. First I get to go – into the lion’s den – to London to face God alone knows what, and then I get to come back here to hold a one on one intervention with Phil that he won’t have seen coming.

I don’t even know which one I’m looking least forward to.

~*~ 

Sensing someone come up – just that little bit too close for comfort – behind me, I realise that the feeling of luck I’ve been enjoying has just run out and that things are about to take an uncomfortable turn. I suppose it was inevitable, that there really was no way things could continue to run as smoothly as they had been, but… Just call me spineless. I really, really don’t want to turn around and wish I hadn’t decided to wait for the pallbearers to carry the coffin back to the hearse before slipping away. Although it’s been five years since I last smelt it, I recognise the – still, even after so long – familiar aftershave and know that round whatever in whatever warped game we somehow found ourselves reluctantly playing is about to begin.

And to think everything had been going so wonderfully well too.

My day running perfectly to plan for a nice change, I arrived at St Michael’s barely a minute before the service began. As I’d hoped, the church was already packed with elegantly suited and uniformed mourners and, not being able to get a seat, I’d had to position myself, standing, right at the back by the door. I could still see the flag draped coffin as it rested at the front of the alter and, thanks to the carefully hidden speakers, I could hear every word spoken by the priest and numerous speakers as clearly as I would have if I’d been seated in the very first pew. 

As far as I was concerned, my position was all that I could have hoped for. I could see everything and, even if they weren’t instantly recognisable, everyone but – unless they were ignorant enough to turn around and gawk at a funeral which, given the calibre of the crowd was highly unlikely – by keeping my sunglasses on and doing my best to blend in to the background I liked to think I was all but invisible. I even started to entertain the idea of… getting in and out… without being seen. I wasn’t entirely convinced it was what I wanted – I mean, hey, I was here now and if I was ever going to make amends with the friends I’d essentially abandoned then surely this was my best opportunity – but, well, at the same time it was nice knowing I had an escape plan if my nerves got the better of me and I felt I needed it.

Although I couldn’t actually see any of those I was still internally debating over possibly making a point of avoiding, it was definitely a relief to know that I could bolt if it all got too much. I’d made it to London, and I hadn’t, despite the sleepless night and ever increasing levels of doubt, flaked out in respect to deciding not to go to the funeral, but there was no denying the fact I was still on edge. I wanted to be there, and – pathetic though it may be – I was certainly pleased with myself for having made it this far, yet… Deep down, I was still wary of what I was perhaps opening myself up for. Having left the way I did I didn’t expect to be immediately welcomed with open arms but… 

Finding myself so close to seeing the friends I’d once – honestly thought I’d never have the chance to see again – considered my surrogate family, I… I wanted to. Regardless of how they reacted and how much I might end up regretting my decision, I wanted to see them.

Now, however…

Now that it’s about to happen…

Shit.

Without warning I’m suddenly wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I’m not prepared for this. I’m really not. Instead of wasting so much time on pretending it was simply never going to happen or debating whether it was what I wanted or not, I… I should have spared a thought or two on working out how to react when – or if – it did actually happen.

Now… It’s happening and, God help me, I’m at a complete loss.

Taking a small step forward, I’m in the process of slowly – hesitantly – turning around when a hand closes around my shoulder and causes me to freeze.

“Perform your disappearing act again and I swear this time I… will… hunt you down and, kicking and screaming if I have to, drag you back to face the music.”

As greetings go I’ve definitely had better but, whatever… Unprepared and already feeling out of my depth, here goes nothing.

Shrugging free of his hand, I plaster what I hope comes across as a friendly, unbothered looking smile across my face and slowly turn around. Although I hadn’t been expecting it to, seeing Sam after all these years actually causes a small tremor of something like excitement to work its way down my spine. Silly, really, and I have no idea why, but talk about a cheap thrill. He looks good, almost exactly as I remember him and this, also somewhat to my surprise, pleases me in a way I can’t explain. Time’s been kind to him and I’m glad.

“Sam,” I murmur at last, still smiling my benign smile as the cogs whir in my brain and I pray that whatever’s coming goes smoothly. He doesn’t, it just has to be said, look pleased to see me. “Long time no see.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sam mutters, scowling as he looks me up and down. Although his eyes are hidden by sunglasses there’s no escaping the intense level of scrutiny he’s putting me under and it takes all my willpower to stand my ground and to not start squirming. “I hope you realise,” he adds with a truly put upon sigh, “you’ve just cost me fifty quid.”

“Huh?” The unimpressed expression and decidedly cool – if not downright frosty – reaction I can understand with ease, his last statement, however… Nope. Not a clue.

“My money was on you not bothering to show,” Sam states, folding his arms across his chest as he continues to gaze at me. “Backup, who, if you must know, has kept the faith all these years, said you’d be here but I was positive you wouldn’t be. I thought, going on past form, that you simply wouldn’t…” Trailing off, Sam shrugs and finally looks away. “I don’t know about you, but I’m experiencing a nasty case of déjà vu here.”

“Huh?” It’s not that the sight of my ex partner and lover is rendering me speechless, more that… I feel like a deer caught in the spotlights of an oncoming semi-trailer and, seriously, just don’t know what to make of it. I… Just call me masochistic, but I really am honestly pleased to see him. I get the impression he’s about as happy to see me as he would be a cockroach scurrying along his freshly cleaned kitchen bench, but… Tough. If I can deal with the shock of finding myself in this situation then so can he. It may have been five years ago and, yeah, okay, it may have ended appallingly, but there was a time when we loved and trusted each other and I like to think that has to count for something. Even if I have a peculiar way of showing it, I know it does to me.

Sighing again, Sam gives a small shrug and shakes his head. “You left after a funeral and, lo and behold, you’ve suddenly reappeared at another funeral,” he responds flatly. “You are, however, looking better than the last time I saw you.”

Stopping myself just in time from issuing forth with yet another grunted ‘huh’, I settle for nodding and smiling blankly instead. “Not that it would have taken much beating,” I murmur after what feels like a slightly too long for comfort silent pause. “I… I know you’re surprised to see me, but I…” I continue, suddenly feeling as though I have to keep talking just to, I don’t know, prolong the moment or something. “When I heard the news I felt as though I just had to come. I should have perhaps told someone but I…”

“Couldn’t remember anyone’s contact details?” Sam interrupts with a sneer as he glances at his watch before taking a step back and looking around him at the rapidly thinning crowd of mourners. “Look. As fun as this has been it’s time to make the move to Highgate for the graveside service. I know you’ve never really concerned yourself with being on time, but I don’t want to be late.”

“The graveside service?” I echo, grimacing as a fresh sense of foreboding washes over me. Standing at the back of the church was one thing, but facing up to the graveside, where there’d be nowhere to hide, I… I just don’t know. Having… survived… my encounter with Sam relatively unscathed perhaps I’d be better off counting my blessings and not risking the day taking a turn for the worse. “I… Uh… I hadn’t really planned on attending the burial. So… You go. Maybe we’ll be able to catch up later.”

Sam’s expression doing its own equivalent of taking a turn for the worse, he looks at me coldly for a few seconds before grabbing my arm and beginning to drag me towards the parking lot. “You’re coming with me whether you want to or not,” he grinds out, digging his fingers tightly into my arm. “Just… You’re here now, so… Suck it up.”

Not wanting to make an even greater scene than the one we’re already making, I dutifully trot after him while all the time wanting to do nothing more than free my arm and bolt in the opposite direction. Despite only having been with him for a few minutes I think it’s safe to say Sam bears something of a grudge towards me for my disappearing act and, while I honestly don’t blame him, it just doesn’t bode well for my immediate future. But, and I’ve got to remember this, as I came here to first and fore mostly honour Malone and not to mend broken bridges, going to the graveside is the right thing to do and, yes, I’ll just have to… suck it up.

“I’m not going to do a runner,” I mutter as we reach the parking lot and Sam comes to a stop in order to look around for where he parked his car, “so feel free to let go of my arm any time you like. The old lady over there in the scary hat is staring at us as it is.”

“For once in my life I don’t care,” Sam retorts, keeping his firm grip on my arm and pulling me along behind him as he once again sets off. “No longer trusting you not to pull a disappearing act, I’m going to do whatever it takes to ensure your appearance at Highgate. As… compelling… an idea as it is to simply let you go and pretend I never even saw you, I wouldn’t do that to Backup and think fifty quid is a small price to pay for, although I really have no idea why, making her day. Trust me though… If it wasn’t for Backup I wouldn’t care what you did and probably wouldn’t have even bothered to come over in the first place.”

“Oh…” Feeling, oddly enough, just that lit bit smaller than I did a moment ago, I watch Sam open the passenger door of a black Audi TT and allow him to push me into the car without comment. Although I never really thought about it I always knew that the way I left was wrong and, with the possible exception of Sam who essentially drove me to it, that there were some who deserved both an explanation and an apology, but… I never did anything about it and now that I’m hearing how much seeing me again will mean to Backup I wish more than ever that I’d handled it better. I don’t necessarily regret my decision to leave or the life I made for myself afterwards, but I could have gone about it differently and with more thought for others.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Sam starts the car and puts it into reverse before glancing at me and smiling sadly. “I know I pushed you into it,” he murmurs quietly, “and for that I am actually sorry. The way you went about it though, that was wrong. You slunk off into the night without a word to anyone and while I may have deserved it there were others that didn’t.”

Thanks, Sam. Having oh-so-gently stuck the knife in, why don’t you just twist it a bit for good measure.

Pulling my seatbelt on, I avoid looking at Sam by gazing out the side window. “I know,” I whisper. “I went about it poorly and, like you, I’m sorry. But… At the time, be it rightly or wrongly, I felt as though I had no other option open to me. I overreacted… I dug myself into a huge fucking hole… Whatever. It’s what I did and, regardless of how much I’d love to be able to go back in time and fix it, there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.”

“It’s the same story for everyone,” Sam surprises me by replying as he reverses the Audi out of its park and turns it towards the exit. “We all could have done things differently, but we didn’t and… what’s done is done. Besides, you’re here now…”

“Mmm…” Not wanting to be having this conversation right now (or ever for that matter), I decide to make an attempt to move things on to a far more neutral and banal territory and lightly tap my finger on the car’s dashboard. “Nice car,” I state blandly. “Yours?”

“Thanks,” Sam replies, accepting my change of topic without comment and only the slightest of disapproving, disappointed looks. “And yes, it’s mine. What about you, what are you driving now?”

“BMW. Five Series,” I reply, only too happy to talk cars for as long as conceivably possible. “I contemplated an Audi, actually, but the Beamer was in stock and, you know me, I couldn’t wait. It’s pretty good though. I like it.”

“And there I was thinking, on your home turf, you’d have gone American and fallen for some Godforsaken muscle car or something equally as horrid.”

“Could have, but didn’t. In fact, didn’t even seriously contemplate, to be honest. The time I spent over here must have coloured my taste in cars.”

“Improved it, you mean?”

“Or that…”

Traffic being strangely heavy for early afternoon, it takes longer to drive the half a mile or so to Highgate than it should and it’s only as we’re finally nearing the imposing gates that I can feel myself beginning to relax a little. I tell myself that although it’s a shock to both our systems to see each other again, things, really, aren’t going all that badly all things considered. Sam’s being civil to me, we haven’t deteriorated to doing our very best to verbally tear strips off each other, and while things may be more awkward than natural between us they’re still nowhere near as bad as I know they could be. Maybe it’s because of the gravity of the circumstances – we are still in the middle of a funeral, after all – or maybe Sam’s only on his best behaviour to make sure I won’t disappear before Backup gets to see me…

Backup… Shit! I wonder…

A peculiar thought suddenly invading my head, I jerk my head around and stare at Sam’s hands as they rest on the steering wheel. Seeing neither a wedding ring nor a tan line to indicate there’d ever been one, I put that particular thought quickly to bed and, unable to help myself, snort. Sam and Backup, given their friendship while I was around and the fact they’re obviously still close, I could have accepted with relative ease and, yes, even happiness. Getting the impression, however, that the reason Sam presented to me for wanting to end our relationship hasn’t eventuated, well… That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.

Choosing, it seems, to ignore my random snort, Sam brings the Audi to a stop in the cemetery parking lot and climbs out. Opening the door, I join him and side by side we follow the other mourners towards the service.

“I was sorry to hear about the passing of your grandmother,” Sam comments softly as we veer off onto a thin path and head towards the slowly increasing crowd gathered around the grave. “I know you were close to her.”

Shocked that Sam would even know of my grandmother’s death, I come to a sudden stop and shake my head. “I… How… How’d you know about that?” I query as, hearing footsteps coming up behind me, I force myself to catch up to Sam.

“Just because you cut yourself off cold turkey doesn’t mean that everyone followed suit,” Sam replies matter-of-factly, causing my levels of shock to inch up another notch. “Don’t look so surprised. And, no. It wasn’t me. I took your disappearance at face value and vowed to leave you to it. Backup, with more than a little willing help from Spencer, however… Well… Let’s just say we know all about your time at Quantico and the fact you’re now with NCIS in San Diego…” Pausing, Sam steps off the path and, once again grabbing my arm, pulls me off with him. “Now, I don’t want you getting narky about this or becoming all high and mighty,” he adds, his tone of voice having an undeniable undercurrent of warning to it, “as you’ve got to take into consideration everyone reacts and copes in different ways. We left you alone and never made contact but, for Backup at least, knowing where you were and that you were doing okay… helped. So… Just don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. Never having so much as Googled any of my old friends I never would have imagined that they’d be keeping tabs on me. It’s just… Hell. I should probably be mortified or at the very least annoyed at the thought of having been spied on but… I’m not. I’m surprised, and I never would have expected it, but I’m far from feeling put out about it. If anything, I’m touched that they continued to care enough about me to want to know what I was up to. I also can’t help but note that while Sam said he wouldn’t have done it himself that, regardless of his façade of indifference, he nonetheless listened carefully enough to Backup’s ‘updates’ to remember them. And that too means something to me.

“Thank you,” I murmur simply, placing my hand over Sam’s for a brief moment before stepping back on to the path and continuing towards the graveside. “Come on. They look like they’re getting ready to begin and, just like old times though it may be, I don’t want to be blamed for making you late.”

“There were times when I honestly believed you only ever wore a watch for show,” Sam retorts, getting in step and shooting me a knowing, if not even vaguely pleased, look. “To this day I still haven’t had the misfortune to meet anyone with as appalling time skills as you seem to possess.”

“And yet I always seemed to arrive in time to save your ass,” I reply, laughing softly as I flick my finger into Sam’s arm. “What can I say other than it’s a particular skill.”

“Mmm… One of many unique only to you,” Sam mutters, moving behind me and placing both his hands on my shoulders. “Now… Brace yourself. While we may have controlled ourselves in respect to not making a scene, there’s a good chance your luck may have just run out.”

“What do you…” Stopping myself from finishing when I realise that Sam is gently steering me towards a small group of instantly recognisable people milling by the coffin as it rests above the open grave, I nod and, following his advice, brace myself. Backup, Spencer and Richards… plus Sam. All at once. My four best friends, all of whom I effectively abandoned, in one place at the same time. I don’t know whether I should be excited or terrified. At least, going on the way Sam’s been talking, Backup and Spencer are still known as… Backup and Spencer… and I hopefully shouldn’t be putting my foot in it if I refer to them that way. It never made any sense to outsiders and even took a bit of getting use to for insiders, but while Spencer was always known by his first name, Backup was almost never known as Tina and Richards, well, while I assume he has to have a first name, I don't know if I've ever actually heard it.

So… Yay. Names I know. Which, given that anything could be about to happen, is better than nothing.

Spencer spotting us coming towards them first, he smiles brightly and gently elbows Backup, causing her to immediately spin around with an expectant, hopeful look on her face. Seeing me, she gives a small, high pitched squeal of delight that raises the eyebrows of more than a few mourners and, with a bounce very much in her step, makes her way over to us. As surprised as I am by her obvious heartfelt enthusiasm at seeing me again, it pales in comparison to the sense of shock I’m experiencing at the sight of her and I can only hope I don’t look as stunned as I feel. Pregnant! And, going by the somewhat soppy look of pride and love on Spencer’s face as he gazes after her, I’d hazard a guess that he’s the father.

“Chris!” Backup beams, flinging her arms around me for an awkward hug. “The Doubting Thomas behind you said you wouldn’t come, but I knew you would! Oh God… It’s just so good to see you again…”

“It’s good to see you again too,” I reply, bending my knees slightly to better return the hug. “You’re looking…”

“Fat!” Backup finishes with a laugh as she releases me and gestures down at her prominent belly. “Don’t tell me, I know already.”

“I was going to say, well… That you’re looking well,” I murmur, getting the hint from the disapproving glances being shot in our direction and, linking my arm around Backup’s, slowly walking over to the grave.

“Still think… fat… covers it better,” she retorts, flashing me another happy smile as we come to a stop by the graveside. “You’d have thought I’d have remembered after the first one how much I hate feeling like the size of a house but, oh no, we just have to go and decide to have another of the little terrors.”

Meaning… She already has a child? Christ. What else have I missed?

“You didn’t know?” Spencer interjects, draping his arm around Backup’s shoulders as the priest takes his position at the head of the coffin. “There’s another one we prepared earlier under the watchful gaze of a babysitter at home.”

“No. I didn’t know,” I reply, noting the matching wedding rings and smiling. “Congratulations, the pair of you.” Pausing, I smirk at Spencer and give a small nod. “Sure did take you long enough.”

“What can I say? Good things come to those who…”

“Persevere,” Backup interrupts, looking pointedly towards the priest. “Now… Shhh! Shut up, the lot of you.”

No one needing telling twice, we all fall silent and watch and listen as Harold Declan Malone is committed to his final resting place. Backup keeps her arm linked around mine for the entire service and it reminds me of how she did the same thing at Taylor’s funeral and how much it meant to me that time as well. Although there’s a lot I could be thinking – or worrying – about, I keep my attention focussed on the service and gradually a serene sense of calm settles over me. I’m here. I raised the courage to do the right thing in attending Malone’s funeral and I’m surrounded by people I already realise still mean a lot to me. 

It’s a nice feeling.

I know the time for explanations and, I suspect, venting is still to come, but for now I’m just genuinely glad that I made the effort to be here.

When the service is over, the coffin has been lowered into the grave and most of the mourners have dispersed, we find ourselves amongst the last to leave and I wonder what’s going to happen next. The memorial booklet mentioned a wake at a nearby hall but, not really wanting to push my luck, I can’t say I have any great desire to attend it. If the others say they’re going I’ll probably have little choice on the matter but as they’re giving no indication of making a move I don’t really know what’s going on and decide to just ask.

“So, who’s up for putting in an appearance at the wake?” I query as Backup finally frees her arm from mine so she can dig a tissue out of a pocket to wipe her eyes with. “I can’t say it’ll exactly be my scene, but if we’re wanting to go we’d probably better get a move on.”

“We’ve got an obstetrician appointment for a check-up so can’t make it unfortunately,” Spencer replies, glancing at his watch and frowning. “We’re going to have to get going ourselves if we want to make it in time,” he continues, showing the time to Backup. “Sorry. Looks like we’re going to have to love you and leave you.”

“Don’t think however that you’re getting away that easily,” Backup states as she positions herself directly in front of me and jabs her finger into my chest. “Because of our appointment and Sam’s need to get back to work we decided when we learned of the date of the funeral that we’d just have our own wake in the evening back at our place. Needless to say your presence is very much required and, no, I won’t take no for an answer. Sam, I’m sure, can give you the details while he drives you back to wherever you’re staying.”

Laughing, Richards gives Backup a goodbye kiss on the cheek and slaps me on the back as he begins to walk off. “Ever get the feeling you’ve been told,” he mutters, still snickering to himself. “See you all tonight. Seven-ish, yeah?”

“Any time around seven,” Spencer confirms, tapping his watch and giving Backup an imploring look. “Come on. I really think we need to go.”

“Mmm… In a minute.” Drawing herself up to her full height, Backup folds her arms across her chest and stares at me. “Chris… Promise me you’ll be there. You can’t come all this way only to disappear on us again. You… You just can’t.”

“I…”

“You have my word, he’ll be there,” Sam states, cutting me off as he steps past to give Backup a hug. “Seeing as you’ve volunteered my chauffeur skills to get him back to wherever he’s staying I may as well just continue in the role and pick him up again this evening. So… Trust me, Backup, we’ll both be there.”

“I was going to say, before I was rudely interrupted,” I mutter, tetchy that Sam felt compelled to put words into my mouth yet at the same time knowing that trust is something I’m going to have to work on regaining, “that I promise I’ll be there. Now… Would you like me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself will do fine,” Spencer replies as, looking more harried by the second, he takes Backup’s hand in his and starts to gently pull her away. “Come on. You’ve got promises from both of them now so let’s go. You’ll see them again tonight.”

Nodding, Backup allows Spencer to lead her away. “I’d better,” she calls out over her shoulder, apparently wanting to get the last word in. “Seriously, Sam. I’m counting on you to ensure he doesn’t disappear on us again.”

“You have my word,” Sam responds, watching them walk away for a few moments before turning around and beginning to stalk back to the car. “Come on, then. Apparently I’m providing a taxi service for you and, as I’m due back at work soon, I need to get moving.”

Feeling, I have to say, like either a child that has to be constantly monitored or a parcel, I start to walk after Sam. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own way around, you know, and don’t need a chauffeur or… a babysitter” I mutter. “Nor am I going to perform a disappearing act any time soon and I really do give you my word that I’ll be where I’m supposed to be this evening, so… Enough with feeling as though you’re stuck with me already. Just give me Backup’s address, I’ll make my way back and I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you staying?” Sam queries, obviously choosing to turn a deaf ear to just about everything I just said as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys.

“Kensington,” I sigh, resigning myself to having to just play along as I don’t want to spoil things by causing a scene now. “I’m staying in a self catering apartment in Kensington.”

“Then it’s not really out of my way anyway,” Sam replies, unlocking the car and coming to a stop by the driver’s side as he waits to see what I’ll do. “If you’ve got something planned or whatever though then… do what you like.”

Shrugging, I get into the car. “I’ve got nothing planned, and, well, if you’re going that way anyway,” I respond flatly, pulling on my seatbelt and steadfastly gazing out the windscreen as Sam gets in and does the same. “You can trust me though. If I say I’ll be somewhere then I’ll be there.”

“If you say so,” Sam retorts as he starts the Audi and drives out of the cemetery parking lot.

The urge to justify my actions and no doubt begin a conversation that I still don’t feel ready for nearly getting the better of me, I take a deep breath and, not caring that I’m being obvious, decide that the time has come yet again for an abrupt change in subject. “Backup and Spencer, hey,” I murmur, smiling away my unease. “Good on them for finally realising what the rest of us had known forever.”

“Mmm… They’ve been married for just over three years and their little boy, James, has recently turned two,” Sam responds, giving me a quick look that tells me he’s onto my game of avoiding topics I don’t like. “You really haven’t spared any of us a second thought, have you?”

“Regardless of what you may think of me, it was simply easier to… shut myself off,” I reply, sighing. “I know I’ve missed a lot and, yeah, okay, I probably regret my decision, but… It’s all in the past. I know I won’t be able to make up for lost time and that, hell, I deserve all the suspicion and attitude you can throw at me, but… Fuck! What do you want me to do, Sam, huh? Tell me what you want from me and I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

Shrugging, Sam turns the car into traffic and concentrates on his driving. “I don’t want anything from you,” he murmurs coolly. “As I mentioned earlier, I didn’t even think you’d show up so, if you must know I’m basically as out of my depth in respect to all of this as you apparently are. So… Whatever. We can continue in silence or we can just make small talk, I really don’t care.”

“Small talk works for me,” I mutter, sitting up a little straighter in my seat and turning to face Sam. I don’t want things to take a turn for the worse as, when all is said and done, the day has really been going quite well, and… as there are some questions I’d actually like to know the answers to, small talk it is. “So, tell me… Are you all still working for CI5?” 

“CI5 changed when Malone retired and a man called Trent Mayfield took over. No one really liked the direction he was heading in so, with the exception of Richards, we decided the time had come to move on,” Sam replies in the same bland tone of voice I remember him using for status reports. “As Backup was pregnant with James at the time she and Spencer decided to set up a sort of mini HQ in their basement and now do on call work for just about every agency you can imagine. They’re always in high demand and it’s working out well for them.”

“And you,” I prompt, almost as surprised by the news of most of my friends having left CI5 as I was by seeing Backup so incredibly obviously pregnant. A lot of time has passed, and people and organisations do change, but… I’m just surprised, that’s all.

“I got offered a job at SOCA and took it. Have almost been there three years now.”

“SOCA?” I’m sure I should know what it stands for but, off the top of my head, I sure as hell can’t think of it.

“Serious Organised Crime Agency.”

“Oh.” Of course. Silly me. Why didn’t I know that. “Like it?”

“It’s better than being constantly stuck behind a desk somewhere. What about you though, is NCIS working out for you?”

“It’s a job. I enjoyed my stint as Agent-At-Sea on the USS Nimitz. That was certainly something different.”

“Think you’ll do that again?”

“Ask to be deployed? Maybe… If the agent they’ve got in to cover me works out well I could probably contemplate it.”

“Fair enough… Speaking of being covered, how long are you over for?”

“I arrived yesterday and I have the apartment for a fortnight. I… I don’t know. I suppose I thought that seeing as I’m here I might as well take the time to have a holiday.”

“Oh…”

Our conversation suddenly drying up, silence descends over the interior of the car and for five minutes or so neither of us say a word. The silence isn’t particularly uncomfortable though and I take the time to surreptitiously check out Sam as he gives his entire attention over to driving. My first impression outside of St Michael’s that time has been kind to him stands the test of closer inspection and I’m struck by how – despite everything that's happened – I’m still instinctively attracted to him. I’m just glad he hasn’t taken his sunglasses off and I haven’t been able to see his eyes as they’ve always been capable of taking my breath away and causing me to lose my train of thought and, well, given that I’m hardly bathing myself in verbal glory as it is I don’t really need any further distractions.

Bringing the car to a smooth stop at a red light, Sam digs his mobile out of a pocket in his suit jacket and holds out his hand. “Here. Give me your phone and I’ll update it with the numbers and addresses you probably need to have in it.”

“Just give me a second to turn it on.” Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I power it up, enter the pin number… and watch with ever increasing mortification as it vibrates and beeps its way through receiving twenty-seven new messages – all of which are from Phil, and none of which I have any intention of reading. If they’re anything like the text equivalent of the way he behaved – dear God, the tears and declarations of love were something to behold – before I left for the airport yesterday morning then, seriously, I just don’t want to know. “Damn!”

“Problem?” Sam queries, glancing down at the phone as I try to casually shield it from his view.

“What? Oh… No. Not at all. I forgot to turn the phone on last night so it’s just all those annoying welcome to BT, welcome to Orange, bullshit messages,” I lie, quickly scrolling through the menu until I come to the mass delete function. “Here. They’re gone now.”

“Uh-huh.” Taking the phone from me without further comment, Sam swiftly syncs it with his and sends over the contact details he thinks I need. “Thanks,” he mutters, handing me back the phone just as the light turns green. “Whether you wanted them or not you’ve now got phone numbers for Backup, Spencer and Richards in there.”

“Yours too, I hope?” I reply, turning the phone off before slipping it back in to my pocket.

“Mine too,” Sam sighs, not exactly enthusiastically. “As I’m apparently picking you up tonight I thought you’d better have it in case there’s a change of plans. I also picked up your number so I can call you if I’m going to be late.”

“You? Late? I doubt it,” I mutter, noticing that we’re already in Kensington and that round one of my return performance is about to come to an end. “Look, though… If it’s an inconvenience to you or whatever, you honestly have my word that I can make it to Backup’s on my own. I’m not about to do… another runner… and will be there.”

Noticing a gap in the traffic about the right size for a Smart Car to slot into, not an Audi, Sam accelerates and slides the car into it. “Picking you up is no hassle,” he replies in a ‘and there’s nothing more that needs to be said on the subject’ tone of voice. “I will, however, need to know where.”

Giving up on arguing as I know it’s not a point I have any chance of winning, I give him the address and not another word is spoken until he’s pulling the car up outside the apartment. “If you could be out here at half six that would be great,” Sam murmurs as I undo my seatbelt and open the door. “Oh, and, Chris?” he adds, as I climb out of the car. “I never thought I’d feel this way, but… it’s good to see you.”

“It’s…” Leaning back into the Audi, I look at Sam, as blushing slightly he busies himself with putting the car into gear, and smile. “You know something? It’s good to see you too.”

And it is too.

Positively unnervingly so.

~*~

Releasing Sam from my embrace, I fight back an odd sensation of disappointment and watch as he climbs back in to the waiting cab. While there was a time in the not too distant past where I never would have so much as contemplated it as a possibility, much less a suddenly very much desired possibility, I wouldn’t have said no if he’d suggested coming up to the apartment for… a night cap. In fact, I probably would have internally cheered and then jumped him the second the elevator doors closed.

But, alas, it’s not to be and I just have to tell myself that it’s for the best, that I shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts anyway. Just because dinner went exceptionally well, far better than I ever expected it to, doesn’t mean… Well, it doesn’t mean anything. Just two old friends going out for a meal and catching up. So what if the awkward moments were kept to a bare minimum and I can’t remember when I last enjoyed myself so much in a stuffy, over priced restaurant. It was just a meal, not the start – or restart – of something I shouldn’t even be considering.

“Things are pretty busy at work at the moment but hopefully I’ll be able to find the time to meet up for lunch or something a little later in the week,” Sam states through the open window of the cab. “I’ll call you.” Pausing, he shoots me what I can only describe as a warning look. “Assuming, that is, you’ll still be here.”

“As I told you over dinner,” I reply, taking a step towards the cab and leaning forward so as to face Sam, “I have the apartment booked until the Thursday after next, work doesn’t care how long I have off, and I still haven’t booked an outbound flight. So… I promise you, just as I promised Backup yesterday, that I’m not going anywhere.”

“So long as you keep that promise,” Sam mutters just a tad ominously as he starts to wind the window up. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll see you later.”

“That you will.” Smiling, I wave the cab off and watch its tail-lights until it’s turned the corner and disappeared from view. Ignoring the whole – deeply ingrained – lack of trust I’m experiencing at just about every turn from both Sam and Backup, everything else it just has to be said is going incredibly well and I can hardly believe how much I’m loving being back in London. While to me it’s a somewhat hard concept to get my head around – given how much I’ve moved around during my life – in a sense it’s almost like… being home. I’m both familiar with and fond of the location and the people are both welcoming and comforting. 

I know I’ve still got a long way to go and a lot of roads to mend before things fully return to the way they’d been – if, what with the changes in everyone’s lives, it’s even a possibility – but I like to believe things are honestly off to a good start. The mini-wake at Backup and Spencer’s place on Friday night was a good evening full of reminiscing and laughter and, seeing as it was about Malone and our memories of him, I never once felt as though I was under the spotlight. All the questions Backup wanted to ask me she saved until Saturday when – willingly and with a sense of almost relief as, relaxed now that the first and scariest step had been made, I knew the time had come to talk – I went back for lunch. I think, in terms of everything historical at least, she’s got all her answers now and, while the trust may not yet be there, we’re back on fairly even ground.

The same, I like to think and really hope it’s not just the alcohol giving me the wrong idea, that the same can be said for Sam. It was he who suggested going out for dinner, just the two of us without any of the others for… moral support and, despite the misgivings I carried into the restaurant, the evening went surprisingly and wonderfully well. Both feeling as though it had to be done, we apologised – rather dismissively and without making a big deal out of it – for what had happened five years ago and then, once the formalities were out of the way, simply got on with the pleasant task of catching up. Wanting to keep the mood light, I only mentioned Phil in passing and talked up his positives rather than his increasing paranoia and the fact I no longer knew what to do with him. 

I also didn’t make an issue out of Sam’s almost as an afterthought comment about how, not long after I’d left, an out and proud homosexual was appointed to a position of considerable authority in Interpol and how, subsequently, he’d been able to stop feeling as though he needed a wife and children to climb the professional ladder. God knows I could have fixated on that particular little snippet of information but, not wanting to ruin things, I didn’t. Besides, as I’ve said more times than I care to remember over the past few days, it’s in the past and that’s just all there is to it. That, and the fact I knew Sam would never travel down that path anyway, that it was just his way of pushing me away in a manner he truly thought I’d buy as viable.

Good times with old friends, a sense of almost instant belonging that I never would have dared hoped for… It has to be said that, despite having come over for a funeral of all things, I feel happier than I have for a long time.

Still smiling, I enter the apartment building and make my way over to the lift. The reception desk is only manned from nine to five and as I’m the only current resident the entire building is silent as I step out of the lift onto the third floor. Ferreting my key out of my pocket, I’m already looking forward to a long shower before falling straight into bed when I unlock the door and step into the darkened apartment. Autopilot guiding my actions, I’ve only just removed the key from the lock and kicked the door closed when I’m suddenly grabbed from behind and roughly spun around.

“What the…” Caught well and truly off guard, I stumble to keep my footing and, as I’m shoved forcefully up against the wall, grope around for the light switch. Finding it, I flick the lights on and – more to my actual horror than relief – find myself face to face with an enraged looking Phil. “Phil! I…”

“I saw you!” Phil howls, grabbing me by the shirt front and hauling me away from the wall. “You said you weren’t leaving me but I… I saw you with him!”

“Saw me with… Oh…” Realising that he means Sam, that he must have been watching our farewell outside of the cab, I shake my head and try to smile. “That was just…”

“Shut up!” Something having obviously snapped in Phil’s head, he throws me to the floor and angrily kicks me in the ribs. Although I’m trained in how to fight and have had to put my training into practice more times than I care to remember, I…

I don’t know why, but I just take it. Phil is pumped up on God knows what, my reflexes are a little dulled from the beer I had with dinner, but… I should still be able to take him. I’ve fought bigger and more hyped up men before – even if I can’t quite remember when – and I’ve always been rated a fairly good fighter, but…

My head and limbs feeling heavy, I do nothing. Phil rants and raves about how I’m a whore and how he knew he couldn’t trust me while all the time laying into me like a man possessed. After a while I can’t even feel the blows as they land on my body and only know that he’s pulled me to my feet again when I see that the wall is suddenly approaching my face at a great rate. Then…

Blackness.

~*~

Waking, a number of unwanted sensations rain down on me simultaneously. 

Naked, covered only by a blanket, on the floor, pain emanating from just about every pore of my body, the taste of blood in my mouth, a headache that would stop a stampeding elephant dead in its tracks, an eerie sense of displacement, as though I’m not really sure any of it is actually real or not…

The groaning though…

I think, sadly, that the groaning sound I can just make out through the fog in my head really is coming from my mouth.

It hurting far too much to move, I slowly crack an eye open and blearily note the fuzzy shape of a man crouching a small distance away in front of me. As the haze gradually clears and I convince my other eye to open, I see that the man is Phil and, it all coming flooding back to me, will myself not to panic. I don’t know how long I’ve been out cold for but, looking at Phil as he stares back at me through red rimmed eyes, I don’t think it’s been long enough for him to have come to his senses and wonder if I’d simply be better off continuing to play dead.

“Oh God, Chris… I… I’m so sorry,” Phil whimpers as, clutching something I can’t quite make out in his hand, he crawls towards me with tears cascading down his cheeks. “I… I never meant for any of this to happen. It… It’s just that I love you so much that I can’t bear the thought of losing you and… Oh God… I didn’t want to hurt you, but… what other choice did I have? I had to show you how much you mean to me and…”

Tuning out Phil’s truly nonsensical babble – if you love something, instead of setting them free beat them senseless – I slowly deduce with mounting dismay that he’s naked and throw everything I have in to trying to sit up. “Phil…”

Too late.

Alarmed by the fact I was daring to move, Phil grabs me in a rough embrace and pushes my face into his sweaty chest. Instantly feeling as though I’m suffocating, I ignore the sparks of pain issuing forth from all over my body and struggle madly. “Lemme go! Please! I…”

“There, there,” Phil coos, rubbing his hand along my back as though he’s merely comforting me as he loosens his grip just enough so that I'm able to turn my head away from his chest. “It’s okay, Chris. I can make it up to you,” he continues, uncurling the fingers of his free hand to show me the hypodermic syringe he’s clutching. “Special K. This will make you feel better. You’ll see…”

“What? No!” My earlier sense of panic now threatening to swamp me, I push my hands against Phil and try to squirm away. All the courses I’ve ever done on drugs and all the fact sheets I’ve had to read coming back to me in an unwanted rush, I know all about Ketamine, otherwise known on the streets as Special K, and want nothing to do with it. I know about its anaesthetic properties, the temporary muscle paralysis, the hallucinations, the way time feels as though it’s literally standing still and… It scares me. Like all drugs, it scares me a lot. 

“Please… Phil…I… You don’t need to do this. I… I’ll stay with you…”

I try to croak some sense into him but, again, it’s too late.

Smiling in a truly crazed way that would make the Joker in that Batman movie proud, Phil stabs the syringe into my thigh and, all the time whispering that it’ll be okay, that he’s only doing it for me, injects its contents directly into my system.

My last conscious thought is that I’m in trouble.

Lots of trouble.

~*~

I think I’m more awake than I have been recently and that my constant companion, the fog in my head, is less than it has been.

But…

Maybe I’m not.

Who knows?

I sure as fuck don’t.

Reality versus hallucinations. In most cases I wouldn’t have a fucking clue. The digitally enhanced replays of the wedding I know aren’t real and I like to think the same can be said for looking down into an open casket and finding Sam lying there, but everything else… Phil wearing a clown mask and a doctor’s white coat – that could actually be real. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if it was.

I…

I just don’t know.

I don’t know anything any more.

I don’t know what day it is or what time it is. I don’t know how long Phil has been keeping me drugged and captive. Perhaps it’s only been a day or perhaps an entire week has passed me by. He comes, always with the syringe, and he holds me, strokes my hair, tells me that he loves me… I don’t fight. Or I can’t.

I just don’t know.

I lie on the floor, trapped and unmoving, held as captive by the drug as I am by Phil’s paranoid delusions. The pain comes when the Ketamine wears off, but it never lasts long as Phil is always there with another dose. For the first time in my life though I welcome the pain, long for it even, as it reminds that I’m alive that, just out of reach, there’s a reality I can strive for. It’s always too fleeting though and I’m always sent back into the welcoming, stifling arms of hell.

This time though, I think it’s different.

Along with the increasing sensations of pain is a sense of… clarity… I haven’t experienced for a while. I’m still off with the fairies – and how, given that I’m still not entirely sold on this feeling actually being real – but… I don’t know. Maybe it is real and maybe the fog really has lifted far enough for me to be able to do something.

Maybe, if I concentrate really hard and stop doubting myself, I can move from my crumpled position on the floor and look around for a phone in order to call for help.

Yes.

That’s what I’ll do. Even if I am just still hallucinating it makes a nice change from the usual horrors and gives me a sense of long forgotten hope. I’ll… move, find a phone, and… it will all come to an end.

That’s…

That’s what I’ll do and that’s what will happen.

Concentrating on working through the pain and the last lingering threads of doubt, I slowly – not to mention extremely laboriously – crawl along the floor in the direction of the coffee table where I dimly recall having once seen a phone. It seems to take a lifetime to make my way around the sofa and, with my energy levels diminishing far more quickly than I’m actually moving, the phone is finally in both my sight and reach when Phil arrives in the room and is instantly upon me.

“You ungrateful bastard!” he screams, grabbing me by the shoulders and slapping me so hard across the face that, just like that, once again I’m sent spiralling into darkness. 

~*~

The lure of consciousness teasing and taunting me, I moan and actively long for oblivion. Be it real or not, I no longer care and don’t want to be awake.

Assuming that moment of clarity – however long ago it was – when I tried to find the phone was indeed real, Phil didn’t react at all well to my foolish attempt at independence and retaliated by dragging me into the bedroom and tying my wrists to the bedposts. Other than my position though and the new pain emanating from my wrists, nothing else has changed.

Reality and hope both elude me.

Phil has me where something in his increasingly disturbed mind tells him he wants me and there really isn’t a thing I can do about it. He seems to be around less though… Or… I don’t know. Maybe my delirium is now just too great for me to be able to trust any thought that crosses my mind. Maybe he’s even with me now and I’m not alone as I think I am. I just can’t tell.

I just can’t tell anything.

Take the voice I think I can hear calling my name for example. I don’t think it sounds like Phil, and I think it sounds familiar as it seems to draw nearer, but…

I’m probably just imagining it.

That’s it.

I have to be.

Content that for once I have to be right about something, I mentally wave the white flag of defeat and willingly slide back down into the now comforting arms of unconsciousness. 

~*~

The nightmare is nothing unique. Fear, pain, horror, failure – just another crystal clear film from the never ending collection my subconscious keeps neatly stored in my head to use as needed. Not real, of course. Far from real. More often than not they don’t even draw from actual events. Not that it matters. As always, as it holds me captive, whimpering and fighting futilely for reality, it certainly feels real enough. 

Trapped. Unable to escape. The bloody horrendous outcome an inevitability I have no control over.

Same old, same old.

“Come on, Chris. Wake up!”

Only… This time something is different. Not a light at the end of the tunnel, more a vague memory of where I might find a light switch to banish the darkness.

Snapping awake, I squirm away from the insistent hand shaking my shoulder and, gasping, blink in the dull light illuminating an unfamiliar room. 

Where am I? How did I get here? Why… Oh God… Why does everything hurt? Who’s that standing by the bed looking down at me?

“I…” A dimly recalled sense of survival instinct making me not want to appear as weak and as at a loss as I feel, I push myself upright into a sitting position and immediately pay the price for my ill thought out action. “Oh God…” Groaning, I close my eyes and will the nausea I can feel rolling ominously in the pit of my stomach down. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I shouldn’t have tried to move so quickly. The heavy fog of pain should have told me I was lying flat on my back for a good reason.

“Here…” Feeling the bed dip as – my guard? Nurse? – whoever it is that’s in the room with me sits down on the mattress, I groan again and weakly try to shift away from the hand that closes gently around my shoulder. “For God’s sake, Chris, open your eyes and get a grip! I want to give you a drink, not have my wicked way with your battered hide.”

Vaguely recognising the voice, I cautiously open my eyes and find Sam staring back at me with – and even in my current addled state I can make this out clearly – a look of long sufferance on his face. “Sam?” I croak, accepting the glass of water he holds up to my lips and taking a small sip. The cool liquid feels heavenly on my parched throat and I take a few more sips before Sam takes the glass away and places it on the bedside table. “Thanks.”

Grunting noncommittally, Sam stands up without meeting my gaze and busies himself picking up pill bottles from the table and reading their labels. “Andrew said to give you more pain killers when you came to,” he states matter-of-factly as, finding the bottle he’s looking for, he unscrews the lid and tips two small pills into the palm of his hand. “Here…”

Holding my hand out, I stare at the pristine white bandage encircling my wrist and know without even having to look that I wear its twin on my other wrist. Torn, raw skin from rope burn. Lovely. At least I know now why it is I hurt all over. Sure, I’ve had better realisations, but there you go. At least… the worst… of it is over. Granted, I don’t quite know how I ended up in this bed after Sam must have unwittingly come to my rescue in the apartment, or who the Andrew he just referred to happens to be, but… I’ll take it.

I’ll take it happily.

Swallowing the pills with a mouthful of water once again brought to my lips by Sam, I slump back against the pillows and sigh. So many questions, so little energy. “I…”

“Shhh…” Sam interrupts, his expression as unreadable as I’ve ever seen it as, gesturing at the bed, he indicates that I should lie down. “You need to rest. You’re dehydrated and ideally should be in hospital on a drip. There’s also a chance you could be concussed, so either do as you’re told for a change or I’ll take Andrew up on his offer of finding you your very own hospital bed to recover in.”

“You sure know how to threaten a person,” I murmur, accepting that I lack the energy to do anything other than what I’m told and sliding down into the bed. “But…”

“No buts,” Sam retorts, pulling the duvet up to my chin before, after a few seconds hesitation, walking away from the bed and taking a seat in an uncomfortable looking armchair in the corner of the room. “The twenty questions you want to ask me and the hundred or so I’m going to ask you can wait until you’re… not quite so grey looking. Just… Go back to sleep, Chris. I’m going to call in sick, so I’ll still be here when you wake up.” 

Wearily accepting that I’m in no fit state to argue, let alone successfully formulate all the questions I want answers to, I make myself as comfortable as my bruised body will allow and close my eyes. “Sam, I…,” I whisper, there suddenly being one question I really feel I need to know the answer to. “I’m not dreaming, am I? You’re… really you?”

“If this strikes you as a good thing to dream about then I fear you need more help than I’m capable of offering,” Sam replies with a dry laugh. “No, Chris. You’re not dreaming. I really did rescue you from… God knows what… and I really am watching over you in my spare bedroom.”

“Some things never change then,” I mumble thickly as, feeling strangely content, I relax and willingly wait for sleep to descend. 

“Mmm… Some people just get all the luck,” Sam murmurs quietly. “Just… Go to sleep. I’m sure at some point all of this sad and sorry mess will start to make sense.”

My last conscious thought is that, as always, if Sam’s in charge then, one way or another, things probably will turn out alright.

~*~

Throwing back the duvet, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and, subscribing very much to the ‘just rip the bandaid straight off’ school of thought, quickly sit up. As expected, my body complains vigorously at my careless treatment of it and I swear a good few minutes pass before my head stops spinning and I’m able to blearily focus on the time on the clock radio. Not, really, that knowing the time helps me in any great way. So it’s a quarter to five. Wonderful. Is that AM or PM? Quite bright light streams through the gap in the drapes, but it’s summertime so, again, it doesn’t really help me much. I like to think that I’m not too far gone to lean towards it being the afternoon, but, honestly, who knows. I certainly don’t know what actual day of the week it is, so, you know, it wouldn’t exactly surprise me to discover it’s actually morning at all.

Biting back a sigh, I wearily rub my hands over my face and slowly peer around the room. Bed, bedside tables, armchair, Oriental rug half covering polished floorboards, unobtrusive, built-in-robe – all very neat, colour coordinated in various tones of green, and, ultimately, quite unlived in. A spare bedroom for the want of having any other use for the room and… just how I’d imagine it if I’d ever bothered to wonder what an extra bedroom of Sam’s might look like. The amount of – I’m going to get around to finding a home for it one day, honest – junk I have in my spare bedroom is so great that if any surprise guests landed on my doorstep I’d either have to give them my own bed or direct them to the sofa as I wouldn't want them running the risk of breaking their neck by simply walking through the doorway. If Sam saw the mess he’d probably have a heart attack on the spot.

Not counting the decrepit sight I make sitting slump-shouldered on the bed, the only items that look out of place in the room are the collection of pill bottles on the bedside table and the two suitcases on the floor in front of the built-in-robe. One’s mine and the other one, going by the British Airways’ luggage tags that closely mirror the ones on my case, I hazard a guess belongs to Phil. Looking at the cases causes two thoughts to simultaneously fight for attention in my head. One is that Sam must have gone back to the apartment to both clean up the mess and retrieve them (but… when did he have time to do it? Every time I’ve struggled to fleeting consciousness he’s been here, insisting I drink more water and get more rest) and other is…

Phil.

If what he brought over from San Diego with him is here with me, what’s he doing for belongings and, assuming Sam finalised my booking at the apartment, where’s he staying? (And, while I’m at, why did it feel as though he’d been gone for so long that day? I know my sense of time was fucked, but I still don’t think he’d ever stayed away for that long before. Hell, maybe he didn’t plan to come back at all and had just decided to leave me there…)

Quickly reaching the conclusion that I have other, far more important things on my mind, such as suddenly feeling a pressing need to find a bathroom, than thinking about my now very much ex-lover, I get to my feet and slowly make my way over to the door. Opening it, I step into a showroom quality, pristine open plan living area and find Sam, with a pair of glasses perched on his nose, seated on a milk coffee coloured leather armchair with a laptop computer on his lap.

“Glasses!” I exclaim as, not liking the sense of light headedness being upright is causing, I do my best to lean casually – why, yes, this is actually very much where I want to currently be, thank you very much – against the wall. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“The aging process, and I really do hate to break this to you, is something that happens to all of us,” Sam states coolly, giving me a look that I read has more in common with displeasure than concern as he places his computer on the glass topped coffee table and stands up. “Now, dare I ask just where it is you think you’re going?” 

Ignoring his question, I choose – needing to grasp a positive, however small, wherever I can find it at the moment – instead to fixate on a small, meaningless in the circumstances fact and smile smugly. “I’ll have you know I had my eyesight checked last month and it’s still perfect.”

“Mmm… As was mine two years ago,” Sam responds, taking his glasses off and setting them down on the coffee table before making his way over to me. “Do I need, perhaps, to remind you of our two year age difference?

“My grandmother didn’t need glasses until she was well in her sixties, and my father…” Trailing off as it hits me that my father didn’t get to live long enough to require glasses, I look away from Sam and shrug. “Never mind. I like your glasses and think they suit you. If I ever manage to reach the age of needing glasses then I plan to embrace them wholeheartedly and will have a pair for every occasion.”

“For some reason I don’t doubt that for a second,” Sam replies as he takes a step closer and lightly rests his hand on my shoulder. “Now, the topic of glasses being, I think, done to death, allow me to ask again… Where exactly is it you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom,” I mutter, surreptitiously sliding a little further along the wall in order to extricate myself from Sam’s familiar touch (because, hey, more confusing thoughts are just what I don’t need at the moment). “All that water you’ve been pouring down my throat every time you managed to catch me awake has finally had the desired effect and I need to use the toilet, only… Only you’ve clearly moved and I don’t know where it is.”

“Sorry. I forgot you haven’t been here before,” Sam murmurs as he begins to walk towards the kitchen area. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Pushing away from the wall, I shuffle slowly after Sam. “Hey, I see you went back to the apartment and picked up my case. I’ve got to ask though, when did you get time to do that, or… or have I been out of it for longer than I want to know?”

“I also cleaned everything up and settled your account with your credit card,” Sam replies over his shoulder as he leads me through the spotless kitchen. “As for when, deciding there was no time like the present, I went back last night while Andrew was tending to all your wounds.”

Andrew. There’s that name again.

“Thank you… Seriously, Sam, thank you for everything,” I state, my voice catching in my throat as for the first time since realising I’ve been rescued the gravity of both what happened and what might have been hits me. If, or so I’m suspecting anyway, temper – with a side serving of distrust – hadn’t made Sam come to the apartment to check on me, if Phil had come back or perhaps misjudged the ketamine dose… It just… It doesn’t bear thinking about. “Please thank… Andrew… for me the next time you see him too,” I add slightly breathlessly as we come to a stop outside the bathroom.

“You’ll meet him later this afternoon when he comes back to check on you, so you can thank him yourself then,” Sam responds with a knowing smile as he gestures me into the bathroom. “You can come right out and ask who Andrew is, you know. I can tell the curiosity is nearly eating you alive.”

Pausing in the doorway, I shake my head and shoot Sam a wry look. “How very observant of you,” I retort with a husky, slightly sick sounding laugh. “Of course, and here’s a novel idea for you, you could just tell me without making me ask.”

“I could,” Sam agrees, “but where, pray tell, is the fun in that?” Shrugging, he gestures into the bathroom again. “If you’ve forgotten why we’re here then your concussion is worse than we thought.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter stepping into the bathroom and once more admiring how open-inspection perfect Sam obviously likes to keep his apartment. “Seeing as you’re not going to be nice though, first things first… Who’s Andrew? Is he an old lover, a… current… lover, some stranger you picked up on the street, or…”

“Enough already!” Cutting me off with a snort of laughter, Sam follows me into the bathroom and leans against the wall by the shower. “Andrew is a doctor who just happens to be a trauma specialist used by various agencies. I’ve known him for a few years now and called him after, having finished your ‘I don’t need to go to hospital’ routine, you so spectacularly passed out on me. Luckily for you, he was available and agreed to help. Oh, and before you feel compelled to ask again, he’s married and we’ve never seen each other naked…” Trailing off, he shrugs. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” I drawl, keeping my – positively pointless, surely – relief at knowing that the mysterious Andrew is simply a doctor he’d met through professional circles hidden by focussing on shuffling over to the toilet. “Now, while I’m very thankful for your assistance in guiding me to the bathroom, you have my assurance that I wasn’t hit on the head hard enough to have caused memory loss in respect to what I need to do and that I can take it from here.”

Pushing away from the wall, Sam doesn’t leave the bathroom as expected and instead walks over to the bath, his expression one of contemplation. “How about a bath when you’ve finished?” he offers, leaning over and placing the plug in the tub before I’ve even had time to reply. “A good soak might make you feel a little better.”

The idea of a soaking in warm water immediately striking me as the best one I’ve heard in a long time, I nod. “Sounds perfect,” I murmur, watching Sam turn the taps on before retreating to the doorway. “Thanks…”

“You do what you have to do and I’ll go and get something clean for you to put on,” Sam replies as, effortlessly taking charge as always, he pulls the door half shut and walks out of the bathroom.

Alone, I do indeed do what I had to do and have just finished washing my hands in the basin – while at the same time choosing not to pay any attention to my bedraggled reflection in the small oval shaped mirror placed on the wall above it, multitasking, in other words, at its most impressive – when, carrying a pair of black pyjama pants I recognise as mine and a bottle of water, Sam returns.

“Congratulations,” he comments cryptically, placing the pants on the closed toilet seat before handing me the water bottle. “I half expected to see you in a crumpled heap on the floor so, again, congratulations on surprising me by remaining upright.”

“Ha, ha. Very droll.” Taking the bottle of water from Sam, I dutifully unscrew the lid and, bringing it to my lips, take a long drink. “Anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to pick on the infirm?”

Smirking, Sam gives my shoulder a small, condescending pat before sidling past me and turning the bath taps off. “If they did I’ve forgotten. Besides, I disagree. For the healthy party it can actually be quite amusing.”

“I think you’ll find… obnoxious… would be more apt,” I retort, placing the bottle on the vanity unit before gazing down at the now somewhat damp bandages encircling my wrists and forlornly holding my hands out to Sam. “I… Uh… I appear to have been a little overzealous with my hand washing ‘cos my bandages are all soggy.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam mutters, “Careless creature,” under his breath and gently removes the bandages from my wrists. “That’s it, Chris,” he continues, carefully turning my still red raw and tender wrists over in his hands, his expression strangely closed, “I think the time has well and truly come for you to explain just what the hell happened to you.”

“Mmm…” Yay. If this isn’t going to be a conversation I never really wanted to be part of then I don’t know what would be. “I… I suppose…” Pulling my hands away from Sam, I take a step back and reach for the buttons of my – old fashioned, and very much not mine – pyjama top. “Just… let me get in the bath first, yeah?”

That way, when my wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole gets too great I can just slide down into the water and drown myself.

“Of course. Here, let me help,” Sam murmurs, batting my hands away and, before I’ve even had time to consider mounting a protest, lightly unbuttoning my top. “Dear God…” Hissing at the sight all the bruises littering my torso, he looks me in the eye briefly and shakes his head before pushing the top down over my shoulders. “These look even worse than they did yesterday,” he states blandly as, there not really being anything I can think of saying, I slide my pyjama pants down and step out of them. Like my torso, a motley collection of bruises and abrasions are scattered over my legs and hips and, suddenly ashamed, I can hardly bring myself to look at them. Being naked in front of Sam doesn’t bother me as it’s not like he hasn’t seen it all before, but having him have to see me like this it… It just doesn’t feel right.

“They feel worse than they did yesterday too,” I sigh, keeping my gaze averted as I allow Sam to help me into the bath. “Oh yeah, this is good though. Thank you for thinking of it.” Relaxing in the gloriously warm water, I cautiously make myself comfortable and, even though I know it won’t succeed in making me disappear into thin air, close my eyes. 

I owe Sam – a lot – the truth and I have every intention of being nothing but honest with him about my sad and sorry existence, but… It’s going to be hard, that’s all. Hard, embarrassing, sordid and perhaps, if I ever paused to actually think about why Phil did everything he did, just that little bit… deserved. I mean, if I’d paid him more attention and hadn’t been so solely and thoroughly self absorbed, would he have reacted like he did?

“This is new,” Sam murmurs softly, wafting his hand lightly over a scar on my right shoulder and not only causing my eyes to fly open but also for goosebumps to break out all over my skin. “Well, not new in comparison to everything else but… uh… new to me.” 

“I…” My breath catches in my throat as, for all of a split second, my eyes meet Sam’s and a barely remembered yet at the same time achingly familiar twin sensation of love and comfort washes briefly over me. Startled by this – dear God, I so shouldn’t be here – I quickly glance away as Sam, a slight blush tingeing his cheeks, backs away and takes a seat on the closed lid of the toilet.

“Let me guess, you picked a fight with someone twice your size,” Sam offers lightly, favouring me with a patently forced smile when I hesitantly swivel my head to face him. He looks uncomfortable with the situation he’s suddenly found himself in and I know he felt whatever it was that happened a moment ago as strongly as I did.

Accepting that I wouldn’t even know what to say on the off chance I wanted to draw attention to the strange, positively out of place charge of electricity that just passed between us, I decide to follow Sam’s lead and err on the side of light heartedness. “Not exactly, no,” I murmur, smiling as though I’m simply sharing an amusing anecdote with an appreciative audience. “You’ll no doubt remember how I had an unerring ability to place myself, and usually you as well, you know, just for good measure, in danger of being blown up by… just about anything that was capable of exploding while we worked together, yeah?”

“How could I possibly forget,” Sam replies drily. “If there was a mine, bomb or unexploded grenade anywhere to be found on a mission then I could count on you not only finding it but also setting it off.”

“Mmm… It’s an art form, I tell you,” I retort, mentally breathing a sigh of relief over the fact Sam’s already looking more relaxed than he did a moment ago. “Anyway, the playing chicken with explosive devices was my… thing… while I lived in London. Since returning to the States however I’ve swapped bombs for knives and can now draw knife wielding maniacs to me like you wouldn’t believe. This…” I point to the scar and roll my eyes. “Was a steak knife thrown with surprising accuracy by a severely pissed off wife of a petty officer suspected of drug trafficking.”

“Oh. Being knifed by a woman. A career highlight, no doubt.”

“But wait, it gets better,” I continue, warming to my tale because, let’s face it, it’s far preferable to what I know has to come next. “She was tiny, think Posh Spice, only with a face like Susan Boyle and a glass eye, and had an infant cradled against her hip. The petty office, meanwhile, was built like Rambo and could have, if it wasn’t for the really snotty crying fit our arrival caused in him, snapped me and my partner like twigs. Honestly! Walking into a mad house had nothing on it.”

“Sounds like it. Now…” Fixing me with an expectant look, Sam folds his arms loosely across his chest and leans forward. “Come on, Chris. I know you don’t want to be having this conversation but the time really has come. I think I deserve to hear the story, don’t you?”

Deserving the truth and actually having to put me through the ordeal of sharing it are, I’m sorry to have to say, two entirely different things. Just… Fuck! Having lived through it was bad enough without having to go through it again verbally.

“You’re right. I really, really don’t want to be having this conversation,” I whisper, lowering my head and staring down at my, I think somewhat carpet burned, knees. “It’s just sordid…” And embarrassing. Can’t forget that.

“Let me try to put it to you another way then,” Sam responds matter-of-factly. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second. Imagine you were the one to walk in on… uh… what I walked in on and subsequently found yourself ensnared in mopping up the mess… Wouldn’t you be dying to know what exactly happened too?”

“Mess,” I snort, shaking my head and, hallelujah, feeling just that little bit more like a complete waste of space than I did a moment ago . “That’s a good word to use, actually. Sam, I… I’m sorry for putting you out. Shit! I… I’m sorry for everything and if you want me out of your hair, I’ll…”

“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like or need,” Sam interrupts with a sigh as he gets up and comes over to crouch alongside the bath. “I shouldn’t have put it like that and I’m sorry. Look, Chris… All of this has thrown me, I can’t deny it, but I’m both glad that I was able to help you and that you’re here. Regardless of how things may have ended, we still share a lot of history together and in some way or another I like to think I’ll always be there for you. I just want, no… need… to know what happened. I… I can’t help but think you owe me that much.”

Sighing, I lift my head and risk a glance at Sam. As I would have felt safe betting my life on, he’s looking at me with obvious concern. “Of course I owe you an explanation,” I murmur, letting my gaze slide back to my oh-so-fascinating knees. “Hell, I owe you far more than an explanation, but…” Taking a deep breath, I smile grimly and, resigned to my fate, nod slowly. “Okay. You asked for it. I’d make myself comfortable though if I were you as this is probably going to drag on for a while.

“As I think comfort in here is actually asking too much, I’m fine like this,” Sam replies, shifting into a kneeling position. “Despite the failing eyesight, my knees are still pretty good for my age so, assuming you finish before the water gets cold, I’m sure I’ll be able to survive.”

Although I’m not overly convinced by this – kneeling on cold hard tiles, comfortable? – I shrug in agreement, suppress the urge for yet another sigh followed by a deep breath chaser combo, and reluctantly begin.

“In order for what happened to make any… uh… sense, I have to go back further and… uh… be a little more honest in respect to my relationship with Phil. While I didn’t exactly lie the other night at dinner…” Jerking my head up as a stray thought suddenly hits me, I look at Sam wide eyed. “Actually… On that note, before I continue can I ask you what day it is? I know we had dinner on Sunday night, but then it all goes hazy. I… I have no idea what day it is.”

“It’s...” Sam looks at his watch. “Today’s Thursday and it’s just gone five thirty in the afternoon. Oh, and before you ask, you’ve been here since about eleven o’clock last night.”

Sunday evening to Wednesday evening. Lovely. Only three days. Three long and slow days that felt like far, far longer.

“Thank you.” Smiling weakly, the siren-like call of my knees once again gets the better of me and, lowering my head, I resettle my gaze on them. “What I told you in the restaurant about Phil was essentially true. He is…” Grimacing, I hurriedly correct myself. “He… was… my lover and he did live with me. I may, however, have just painted a more, I don’t know, loving and domestic bliss type picture than it actually was. Don’t get me wrong. I certainly cared for Phil and had no idea he was capable of… uh… flipping out like he did, but…”

“It sounds like you didn’t love him,” Sam offers quietly when it becomes apparent to both of us that I’m struggling to continue.

“I wanted to love him,” I murmur, grateful as ever to Sam for neatly getting to the crux of the matter, “and there was no real obvious reason for me not to love him. He was just, and I know it’s probably going to sound like a horrible thing to say, perfectly… average. Accountant in a law firm, easy on the eye, inoffensive personality, no horrid habits to speak of, kind… Seriously. You’d have been hard pushed to find fault in him. Well, that is in the beginning, anyway. But… But I’ll get to that. For whatever reasons, Phil, I know, loved me. He wasn’t obsessive about it, but it was just… obvious, you know? He was so over the moon and appreciative when I let him move in after he lost his apartment and, finding that I liked having someone to come home to, I thought that in time I was going to be capable of falling in love with him after all. He was there and he always did nice things for me and the sex was adequate and… You’ve got to believe me, Sam, I really did want to love him. I wanted him to be all the things I apparently was to him, but… I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find it in me to love him but nor could I raise the inclination to let him know. Pathetically, and this will probably come as no great surprise given my stellar history, it was easier to embrace the status quo and just go with it. He was happy and I… Well, I simply didn’t care. Lacking the imagination to desire anything better I was content to go along with the flow to wherever it may take me. Again, it probably sounds horrible and I don’t blame you if you think I… deserved… what happened, but… in the name of honesty… I can’t sugar coat it. Phil loved me and I… I found him convenient enough to warrant a degree of fondness.”

“Some people would probably find your behaviour cold and calculating, but knowing you I lean more towards… pragmatic,” Sam states as, shocking me yet again, he reaches out and gently brushes the back of his hand along my cheek. “From what you’re saying, Chris, while you may not have loved him nor were you hurting him. Sure, it could be said that you were stringing him along, but… For the most part it was working, yeah? Phil was happy and you were… content. I hate to say it, but I reckon there’d be a lot of relationships like that.”

“Mmm…” Feeling oddly bereft when Sam removes his hand, I sigh softly and, knowing that I have to, push on. “Phil, although I always found excuses not to pry or even ask him outright as to what was wrong, started acting a little peculiar during the last couple of months. Although we’d actually met at the gym and he’d always strived to look after his fitness and body, he started spending more and more time at the gym. He also became obsessed with the high protein, power shake regime of bodybuilders and despite how little attention I was paying to these changes I couldn’t ignore the effect it was all having on his body. Again, although I never bothered to actually ask him, it was clear that for some unknown reason he was trying to bulk up. Never having really liked the look of overly worked bodies, I… at the risk of coming across as self absorbed… have no idea what possessed him to pursue, in his mind, the perfect body. What I do know though, and I blame myself for simply choosing to ignore it instead of questioning him on it, is that his change in physique wasn’t solely down to hard work and power shakes.”

“Steroids?” Sam prompts.

“I never saw any proof, but… In hindsight, the changes in his personality were so… obvious… that I should have spoken up instead of simply continuing on my merry, indifferent way. From being the very embodiment of easy going he started to suffer from mood swings and… uh… jealousy inspired paranoia. He was never violent and we never fought, but… If I came home late I got hit with twenty questions about why I hadn’t arrived earlier and he always wanted to know what I was doing, where I’d been. Work became pretty hectic around this time, so I was away from home even more than usual and needless to say that didn’t help as left to his own devices he single-mindedly pursued his alleged perfect body and dwelt on how I was no doubt cheating on him. When he discovered I was coming to London for Malone’s funeral I honestly thought, given how he carried on about how I was going to leave him and not come back, it was going to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back…”

“Am I right in thinking perhaps it was?”

“Oh, well and fucking truly,” I retort drily, mentally breathing a sigh of relief over the fact that, unpleasant as all this is, I’m actually getting somewhere with my tale. “Now, I didn’t even know Phil had a passport, so imagine my surprise Sunday night when, after you dropped me off, I open the door to the apartment only to be immediately set upon. Oh God, Sam, he… He just went off. The man I’d never even see kill an insect before just went ballistic. He must have either followed me or at the very least been looking out the window when I got out of the cab because he accused me of cheating on him and before I could even open my mouth to deny it he was on me, and…” Swallowing hard, I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around them. “Sam, I… I don’t know why, but I let him… Maybe it was shock, maybe he’d jabbed me with something that I hadn’t even noticed, I don’t know, but I… I just let him beat me. Maybe, hyped on whatever it was he’d taken, I couldn’t have stopped him even if I’d tried, but… but I didn’t try. I just took it. He screamed that I was a prick and a whore and all sorts of other colourful insults while he threw me around the room and I did… nothing…”

“Andrew said he’d found no sign of any defensive marks on you,” Sam replies calmly as he gets up and, gingerly seating himself on the edge of the bath, places his hand lightly on my shoulder. “You’d been drinking, you weren’t expecting trouble and were taken off guard and, who knows, maybe he did manage to inject you with something, it doesn’t matter though, Chris. Like we’ve both repeated so frequently just recently, what’s done is done. Dwelling on it isn’t going to achieve anything.”

“No, but… Whatever. You’re right, it doesn’t matter.” He is right too, I suppose. Dwelling on my inability to fight back isn’t going to change what happened. I just hope I never freeze like that again, that’s all. Next time it could be in a work situation with someone relying on me to actually do what I’m usually perfectly capable of doing. “I don’t know how long the beating went on for,” I continue, my voice coming out far more shakily than I’d like, “but I do know it came to a sudden end when he slammed my forehead into the wall and I blacked out. When I came to daylight was streaming in through the windows, I was on the floor and I… I was…”

Feeling Sam’s hand close gently around my shoulder, I shake my head desperately and blink back tears of disgust and shame. “Chris…”

“No!” I exclaim, shocking myself and I suspect Sam too with the level of vehemence in my voice. “Just… Let me finish. We’re almost at the end now and I just want to get it over and done with. So, please, just listen… When I came too Phil was there and he looked so distraught that I thought he’d come to his senses, we’d have it out verbally and that would be it. But, no… He was certainly distraught, yeah, but he hadn’t come to his senses. He apologised profusely for what he’d done even though, and he made a point of making this perfectly clear, it was all essentially my fault, and he begged for forgiveness before declaring that he’d make it all up to me by making me feel better and then, this apparently being how he planned to make it all better, he shoved a syringe in my thigh and… and that was basically my lot for the next three days. I came to, Phil ranted and raved a bit and then gave me another dose of Ketamine. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Some fucking idiots even take it as a recreational drug, for fun. Amongst other wonderful effects it causes hallucinations and the distortion of reality. Think about it, Sam. Think about how I already suffer from nightmares and try to imagine how my subconscious reacts to having drugs forced into its system. I… I never knew what was real and what wasn’t and honestly thought I was going crazy…”

“Chris…” Keeping his hand on my shoulder – I’m not complaining, but why? What does he think I’m going to do, jump out of the bath and bolt? – Sam stands up and once again crouches down alongside the bath. “I think…”

“I have to finish,” I interrupt dully, fixing Sam with a pleading expression. “I think it was the last day, yesterday, the day you came… I came to and Phil wasn’t immediately on me. Although everything was still foggy something told me that I had to find a phone, had to try to get help, and I’d just managed to reach the phone when Phil returned. Pissed that I’d dared to move, he launched into me again and when he’d finished tied me to the bed which… uh… was where you found me. And that, Sam, is basically it. My now ex-lover whose love I couldn’t bring myself to return had a, I assume, bad, psychotic reaction to steroids and both beat me senseless and kept me drugged on Ketamine for three days in order to, or so I’m thinking here, prove our compatibility. Sadly it’s the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. If you hadn’t come along when you did I don’t know what would happened.”

Smiling wanly, Sam releases his hold on my shoulder and, seemingly avoiding my gaze, reaches for the soap. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he murmurs, holding the soap towards me and waiting for me to take it. “When Backup called Monday afternoon to say she hadn’t been able to get in contact with you I started to think the worst in that you’d just taken off without saying goodbye again and tried to call you myself. Clearly you couldn’t answer but I didn’t know that at the time and every time my call rang out I got tetchier and tetchier. I toyed with the idea of coming around to the apartment Wednesday morning on the way to work but talked myself out of it by trying to convince myself it wasn’t anything to do with me anyway and what you did with your life was your own business. Obviously my resolve faltered during the day, thanks in some part to Backup calling and setting me straight, but… I wish I’d come earlier. If I’d come in the morning then…”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt, taking the soap from Sam and quickly placing it in my other hand so I can curl my fingers around his wrist. “You came, Sam. That’s the only thing that matters. You didn’t have to and, hell, had every right to translate my silence to mean I’d once again taken off, but for some reason you didn’t write me off and, let’s face it, you saved me. Not for the first time, I’m only here because of you.”

“I still wish I hadn’t talked myself out of coming on the way into work,” Sam mutters, placing his hand over mine and giving it a squeeze before pulling them both away and giving me a strange look. “At the risk of appearing as though I’m prying, when you said you’d told me the whole truth and nothing but the truth, is… uh… that really the case?”

Knowing instinctively where Sam’s going with this tentative line of questioning, I slide my feet down to the foot of the bath and begin to industriously wash myself.

“I… I only ask because…”

“When I came to the first time I was naked,” I whisper, cutting him off because I know he won’t let it go. “So, you know, the answer is… probably. I have no idea what he did to me while I was unconscious and I don’t want to know.”

“He… raped you,” Sam states, his expression clouding over and his eyes flashing with anger. “Chris…”

“No…” The word comes out of my mouth like a whimpered plea. “We were lovers, so… so it’s not like he’s never…”

“Discovered masochism since we last met?” Sam queries sarcastically as he gestures towards my waist. “I’m sorry, Chris. I don’t want to make a big issue out of it or make you feel even more uncomfortable than you’re already feeling, but… although you may not have noticed yet, you have fingernail marks embedded in your hips and that… That’s just wrong! Everything about what happened since I dropped you off is wrong, but knowing that he did that…”

“Sam, please…” Grip marks on my hips, a general soreness that only comes from one thing, I… I just don’t want to think about it in any detail. It’s a given, I’m sure of it, so let’s just leave it at that. The whole thing was horrid, I wasn’t conscious at the time anyway, so… What’s there really to think about? Knowing the truth in any great detail isn’t going to make the pain any better or any worse.

Huffing his disapproval at my… lack of reaction, Sam waits until I’ve finished washing my legs before taking the soap from me and beginning to wash my back. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I…” Now, there’s a question. One that leaves me feeling so blank that I almost view the last topic point preferably. “I don’t know. I… I still don’t exactly feel my best and haven’t thought about it…”

“Sorry…” Having finished washing my back, Sam stands up and reaches for a towel. “Come on, Chris. Let’s get you dry and back to the bedroom. Andrew will be here shortly to give you a quick check over and then you can get some more rest,” he murmurs, helping me up, out of the bath and into the waiting towel. “I… I’m sorry for pushing you and just want you to know that I only did it out of concern. I’ve always hated to see you hurting and I guess in that respect nothing’s changed. After you’ve got some more rest I’ll, if you would like me to, that is, help you with working out what to do about Phil…”

“Oh, trust me, I’d like you to,” I reply as, suddenly finding myself upright causing me to vague out a little, I allow Sam to finish his self-imposed task of drying me off without comment. “Thank you…”

“Enough of both the thank yous and apologies, I think,” Sam smiles weakly, helping me into the pyjama pants before placing the bottle of water in my hand and prodding me in the direction of the door just as the buzzer rings out through the apartment. “Okay, you… off to the bedroom with you while I go and let Andrew in.”

There being no need to reply, I nod and wander back to the bedroom. Entering it, I sink down on the edge of the mattress, place the water on the beside table and, it all really being just too hard, lapse into my favourite past time of not thinking about anything in particular. There’s a lot I could, or alternatively should be thinking about, but right now even that relatively simple act is out of my limited reach. Besides, even if I did want to think about something, where would I start? What Phil did I kind of, sort of, in a round about sort of way… understand. Steroids causing a psychotic break, he simply wasn’t himself and he wasn’t consciously aware of his actions. Having been to more seminars on drugs than I care to remember, I know the damage they can cause so, yeah, Phil’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde act I can more or less get my head around.

Sam’s question, however, about what I’m going to do about him… very much falls into the too hard basket. My knee jerk reaction is that I never want to see him again and that that particular game is very much over. But that, I know deep down, isn’t fair. Phil’s out there somewhere in London, probably still off his head and needing help. Even if I can’t – don’t want to? -- help him myself, surely I at least owe it to him to see to it that he gets the assistance he no doubt requires. 

Then of course there’s Sam.

My ex-lover and partner whose casual dismissal of my feelings five years ago pushed me over the edge and back to the States and who, just like old times, I’d very much be lost without. He may be going out of his way to be kind to me for no other reason than it’s the civilised, right thing to do, but… I honestly don’t know. I’m probably deluded or indulging in a truly tragic case of wishful thinking, but a small part of me can’t help but think there may possibly be more to it. I mean, why did he get so agitated over Phil’s… activities… while I was unconscious? 

Failing that, why do I feel as though everything is going to be alright whenever Sam touches me?

Again, it’s just too hard.

Sensing a presence in the doorway, I look up and find a man I have no recollection of ever having met before standing there and smiling at me quite happily. 

Hurrah. Someone to save me from my own thoughts.

“I’m pleased to say you’re certainly looking better than you did yesterday,” he announces brightly, looking me up and down.

“Mmm… Drug free for something like thirty hours now,” I reply, choosing against adding that looking and actually feeling are two entirely different things as, forcing myself to sit a little more upright, I lift my head to better face the doctor. Catching sight of the small collection of pill bottles on the bedside table out of the corner of my eye as I move, I sigh and add blandly, “Well, make that free from those damn horse tranquillisers at any rate…”

“Losing the horse tranquillisers is definitely a good start,” he retorts just a tad too glibly for my liking as he shuts the door behind him and walks fully into the bedroom. “Given that with any luck you won’t actually remember much about our meeting yesterday,” he continues, placing his doctor’s bag on the floor before offering me his right hand with a cheery smile, “I’m Dr Andrew McKinley.”

Looking McKinley up and down, I take in his height – easily over six foot – and broad shoulders and decide that he looks as though he’d be more at home thundering up and down a rugby field than stooping through doors and making home visits. Brown eyes, ash blond hair lacking any discernible style, a rather prominent nose that I’d hazard a guess has been broken more than once and possibly pushing forty, McKinley is saved from being the very embodiment of average by a well worn collection of laugh lines around his eyes and an easy smile that lights up his entire face, dropping years from his age. Satisfied that I’ve neatly catalogued the doctor’s appearance, I take his hand in mine, shake it limply and bite back a hiss of pain as my body complains at being made to move unnecessarily. “Chris Keel.” 

“Oh, I know who you are,” McKinley responds, releasing my hand and giving me an odd look. “I also have it on good authority that you’re pretty resilient and will be able to bounce back from this… unpleasantness… in no time.”

“Unpleasantness?” I snort, shaking my head in disbelief. I mean, unpleasant? Don’t underestimate things or anything. I’m not looking to be the guest of honour at a pity party, but, come on, surely he could have thought of a better word to use. “Stepping in dog shit is… unpleasant, the phone company overcharging you yet again is… unpleasant, turbulence making the passenger in the seat next to you puke is…”

“Enough already!” McKinley laughs, flashing me a genuinely amused smile as he crouches down in order to open his bag. “I get it and I apologise for my clearly inadequate grasp of the English language. If it helps at all I take the fact that you’re up to a slight spot of bitching as yet another sign of improvement from yesterday.”

“Given that I don’t actually remember a lot about yesterday, I suspect merely being conscious and upright would have to be an improvement,” I reply, watching McKinley as be pulls a small, portable blood pressure monitor out of his bag and places it on the bed. “Not, however, that I’m overly convinced I believe it at the moment.”

Standing up, McKinley looks at me questioningly. “Sorry,” he murmurs, reaching for the arm cuff of the blood pressure monitor. “I really should have asked you this already, but, better late than never as they say… How are you actually feeling, Chris?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck, but I’ll live,” I respond with a small shrug. “I ache all over, if Sam hadn’t been there to help me out of the bath I would have probably fallen on my ass and an almighty fog appears to have taken up permanent residence between my ears. Other than that though I’m just peachy.”

“Mmm… I think your misuse of the word peachy shares a fair bit in common with my misuse of unpleasant a moment ago,” McKinley retorts, reaching for my left arm before, after frowning at the particularly livid bruise just above my elbow, changing his mind and gently picking up the right. “As you mentioned though,” he continues, sliding the cuff on and tightening it in place on my upper arm, “you’ll certainly live and the worst of it is definitely over. Have you been keeping up your fluids?”

“Trust me, Sam’s made sure that if I’ve been awake I’ve been drinking. If you ask him he’d probably be able to tell you how much I’ve… Ah!” Falling silent as the pressure in the arm cuff reaches the point of being unbearable against my already tender flesh, I bite down on my bottom lip and glance away. “Shit! Sorry. I’ve never liked having this done even under what passes as normal circumstances.”

Dismissing both my apology and embarrassment with a quick wave of his hand, McKinley removes the cuff from my arm and snorts back laughter. “I’ve always wondered if it’s a generic… male… thing, or whether it’s more pronounced in, hmm… what’s a good umbrella term to use here… ‘special agents’,” he mutters, glancing at the electronic reading on the blood pressure monitor before nodding to himself and returning the unit to his bag.

“I trust you know I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” I state flatly as I suddenly find myself wondering just how much the doctor knows about me and, perhaps more importantly, from what source. When Sam said he knew him I’d simply taken it to mean he was an… acquaintance, someone he’d met through his current job. Sam though, unless he’s changed during these five years in ways I haven’t been able to pick up on, he’s always played his cards close to his chest and has never been one for sharing anything more than the bare necessities with, well, anyone, so… Come to think of it, what exactly did McKinley mean by his ‘I have it on good authority’ statement?

“The whole stoic thing,” he explains, crouching down again and ferreting in his bag until he finds what he’s looking for and, with a triumphant grin, pulls out a stethoscope. “It would be an interesting study, don’t you think? Is the inability to willingly show pain a generic male thing, or is it actually more prominent in law enforcement agents. God knows I’ve heard a lot…”

“Just how well do you know Sam?” I interrupt, choking back a gasp – if he wants stoic I’ll bloody well show him stoic – as McKinley presses the ice cold stethoscope against my chest.

“I’ve known him for about four years now,” McKinley responds, giving me a funny look, “but I’ve been on the roster of on call doctors for the Met and Secret Service for over ten, so you can believe me when I say I’ve had a lot of experience in dealing with stiff upper lip stoicism. Oh, and let’s not forget my source deep inside your old hunting ground, CI5.”

My levels of annoyed confusion growing by the second, I glare the doctor and wish he’d just get to the freaking point. It’s clear that he knows far more about me than I’m currently comfortable with and, to put it bluntly, I’m not in the health and temper for another round of fifty questions at the moment. My headache is increasing in intensity, I’m cold and all I’d really like to do is be able to go to sleep. “What do you mean…”

“Let me just finish listening to your chest and then I’ll do my best to sate your curiosity,” McKinley states with another easy smile. “It’s nothing sinister and contrary to what I suspect you’re now thinking, no, I don’t know enough about you to ghost write your biography. I just know… of you… that’s all.”

Nodding my agreement, I dutifully play the role of the good patient to the best of my ability and breathe in and out as requested. Apparently satisfied with what he hears in my chest, McKinley is still smiling as he packs away his stethoscope and hands me a grey long sleeved t-shirt that I’m apparently going to be using for a pyjama top. “Your lungs appear clear and your heart sounds good,” he murmurs, helping me into the top when it becomes clear to both of us that I can’t, well, not easily anyway, do it myself. “Your blood pressure is still a little low, but that’s to be expected and will improve once you’re up and about. Keep up the water, vitamins and pain killers as needed and you’ll recover in next to no time.”

“Yeah, I’ll live. I know that already,” I mutter, shuffling along the bed until I can reach the Nurofen and bottle of water on the bedside table. Swiftly chasing down two of the small white pills with a good mouthful of water, I gingerly fold my arms across my chest and look at McKinley expectantly. “Well? Isn’t now the time when you tell me just how it is you seem to know so much about me?”

“As I said, I don’t really know all that much about you, just…of… you.” After hesitating for a second or two he sits down on the bed next to me. “Don’t look so put upon. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there’s honestly nothing to it.”

Inching further away from the doctor in order to turn slightly and face him, I mutter, “So, tell me already.”

“McKinley?” he murmurs, looking at me with a patient expression on his face as though he’s expecting a light bulb to illuminate over my head. “No?” he continues when he’s finally translated the blank, vacant look on my face to mean I don’t follow. “Madeline McKinley? Maddy? Surely you have to remember Maddy.”

“Who?” If he doesn’t get to the point shortly, to hell with the pain it will cause, I’m going to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “I don’t wish to appear rude, but I really have no idea what you’re on about.” 

Looking hurt that I haven’t done the nice, obliging thing by immediately expressing recognition, McKinley rubs the palms of his hands along his denim clad thighs and sighs. “Madeline McKinley, my wife and CI5 receptionist. She’s been there for fifteen years now so I know for certain that you would have met her. I’m sure if you think about it you’ll remember her. She sits at the desk just inside the entrance. You would have walked past her hundreds if not thousands of times during your time there.”

“Oh…” Although I try I can’t remember McKinley’s wife with any degree of clarity and, too weary to beat around the proverbial bush, decide to go with simple honesty. “I’m sorry. It’s almost been five years since I left CI5 and it’s not something I’ve really thought a lot about. I came over to attend Malone’s funeral, yeah, but, really, that chapter of my life is closed.”

“How can you say that when…”

“I can say it because it’s my life and last I heard I was able to make decisions relating to it,” I snap, narrowing my eyes and glaring at the doctor as an impassive, unimpressed expression settles over his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a psychiatry degree to go with your one for medicine.”

“While it was never my intention, we appear to have got off on the wrong foot as I get the impression you don’t like me very much,” McKinley murmurs, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, Chris. I was so pleased to be finally meeting you after having heard so much about you from Maddy that I’m afraid I must have come across as too… familiar.”

“Forgive me, please,” I sigh, annoyed at myself for letting ill temper get the better of me and gesturing for McKinley to sit back down. “Its not you. I’m not very fond of anyone, myself included, at the moment.”

“What about Sam? Surely you’re…”

“Do not even think about going there,” I scowl, shaking my head adamantly to further reiterate my point of this not being a subject open for consideration. “I don’t know what you know of our… history… and nor do I want to know.”

Shrugging in easy agreement, McKinley returns to the bed and, it obviously taking a lot to upset him, flashes me yet another grin. “Maddy says the pair of you had the best partnership CI5 had ever seen and although she never broke confidentiality by referring to you by anything other than your call signs I always looked forward to hearing of your latest exploits. It wasn’t until I met Sam through his current job and we got talking though that I was able to put the call signs used by Maddy and the names together.”

“Oh…” Not wanting to continue with this line of conversation, I smile blandly and abruptly change the topic. “Your wife, was she at the funeral?”

“No,” McKinley replies with a shake of his head. “She wanted to, Malone always remembered her birthday with a bouquet of her favourite roses, you see, but unfortunately her mother’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer and she’s with her in Northampton sorting out appointments and the like.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying to imagine Malone walking into the foyer carrying a bouquet of roses and failing dismally. “I hope your mother-in-law will be okay.”

“It’s treatable and they got in early, so the prognosis is good,” McKinley responds as he glances at his watch before quickly jumping to his feet. “Shit! Is that the time? As I’m due at the Yard in thirty minutes I’d better get a move on. We’re…” Pausing, he once again extends his right hand towards me and waits for me to take it. “We’re okay, yeah? I’m sorry if I came across as having too many opinions on things that are none of my damn business and hope, if for no other reason than I may be able to convince you to see Maddy if she returns while you’re still here, that we can be friends.”

Taking his hand in mine, I smile and nod. “We’re good,” I murmur, giving his hand a shake before quickly dropping it and bringing my hand up to mouth to cover a yawn. “Thank you for taking the time to… tend… to me and I apologise for no doubt coming across as grouchy. If I’m still in London when Maddy returns and we get to meet up then I promise now to be on my best behaviour and would appreciate it if you could keep my appalling memory from her.”

“Sounds like a plan. Now, at the risk of stating the obvious, get into bed and get some rest.” Picking up his bag, McKinley flashes me one last smile and leaves the room, pulling the door silently shut behind him.

Alone – at last – I climb into bed and, dragging the duvet half up over my face, close my eyes. Not wanting to fall prey to the memories awoken by McKinley’s innocent mention of CI5 just simmering below my consciousness, to my heartfelt relief I’m fast asleep within minutes.

~*~ 

My nightmares have never been particularly creative. If they’re not forcing me to relive some spectacularly awful event in my life in digitally remastered surround sound perfection then they’re taking a near miss I managed to survive relatively unscathed and making it very much a hit. Occasionally, usually only when I’ve coupled being sick or feeling maudlin with the ill advised viewing of some Godforsaken horror movie or other, I’ll get a gory and blood splattered screening – complete with monsters wielding chainsaws in an abandoned roadhouse in the middle of a highway to nowhere – that, for an almost welcome change, has more in common with fiction rather than my own history.

Generally they follow a tried and true path. The wedding, watching my five year old cousin being ran over by a drunken idiot in a Pontiac, what I endured in Russia, being just that second or two slow to save a captive… 

This one though is different.

I’m in the front row of a studio audience for a game show called ‘The Blame Game’. On the stage before me a man sits strapped to what looks like an old fashion dentist’s chair. Straps of thick leather cross his ankles, waist, wrists and shoulders, holding him tightly in place. Electrodes are attached to his forehead and a piece of black tape covers his lips. I’ve never seen the man before but it’s clear that he’s terrified and knowing this causes me to squirm with discomfort in my seat. Behind me a large crowd clap and cheer their approval as a man with a square jaw and unflattering fake tan walks onto the stage holding a small hand held electronic device about the size of an iPhone. Trailing behind him is a woman clearly intent on emulating a Barbie doll, right down to the impossible breasts and low cut, skin tight evening dress and the brilliant white of her teeth when she smiles almost causes the studio lighting to look dull in comparison. The only non-Barbie thing about her is the shiny sword she swings through the air with surprisingly effortless ease and which causes the audience to bray their delight like a pack of animals.

Not wanting to witness whatever it is that’s coming, I try to get up but find that I can’t move. I can’t even turn my head or close my eyes and have no other option but to watch what’s happening on the stage.

Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, the host pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, teases the bound man for a few moments about whether he’s been a good boy or whether the truth will win out, and then proceeds to read out a question.

“Could you have handled the situation differently?”

Struggling against his straps, the man on the chair shakes his head violently, his eyes wild.

“If only that were the case,” the host murmurs, oozing false sincerity as he taps his finger on his electronic device before affecting a sad expression and turning to face the audience. “Sadly, however, the Truth-O-Meter tells a different story. Jessica, if you would be so kind as to hand down the punishment for daring to lie to us…”

“It will be my pleasure,” Jessica, the Barbie-tastic co-host simpers, undulating closer to the man as the crowd goes wild. “The Truth-O-Meter never lies,” she continues, flashing a bright smile at the camera as she lifts the sword above her head. “If you truly believed there was nothing you could have done differently then you wouldn’t be needing to be punished.”

Her piece said, without further ado she swings the sword and cuts off the man’s left foot at the ankle. Blood gushes out of the wound, spraying out all over the floor as the man tries his hardest to buck right out of the chair. 

Nausea rises in my throat but there’s nothing I can do. Can’t move, can’t look away, can’t help, can’t even throw up.

Can’t do anything other than watch as, the show clearly following a formula, the host asks question after question that the Truth-O-Meter proclaims the man fails and the female co-host, always with a cheery smile, lops off another limb with her bloody sword until there’s nothing left and the crowd are calling for another… victim. Happy to oblige, the host bows grandly before stepping off the stage and, his hand extended, walking straight up to me.

“It’s time to play the… Blame Game!” he declares as two thick necked, black clad goons materialise out of nowhere and manhandle me out of my seat.

Panicking – I can’t play this game as I know I don’t have a snowflake’s hope in hell of passing and I really, really, really don’t want to be chopped into itty-bitty pieces by a psycho Barbie with a sword – I discover that my mouth still works and, desperate, start to plead for my life.

“No… Please… You can’t… Let me go! Please…”

“Chris! Come on, you really need to wake up…”

The contents of my nightmare dissolving into a fine mist around me, I wake gasping and, still caught in the grips of my near miss, sit up and slump without thinking into Sam’s waiting arms.

“It… It’s all my fault! Sam, I… I’m to blame for everything,” I stammer, clenching my fingers around his t-shirt as I struggle to get my breathing under control. “I… What happened, I… I deserve it. I deserve all of it!”

“What on earth are you babbling about?” Sam queries, rubbing his hand across my back for a few seconds before placing both hands on my shoulders and gently pushing me away so he can look at me.

“I…” Looking away, I tighten my grip on his top and shake my head. “I deserve what happened because… because I should have treated Phil better. It’s… It’s my fault!”

“What?” Sam exclaims, grabbing my hands in his and squeezing them tightly. “Where’s this coming from, huh? Of course you don’t deserve…”

“I do, I do!” Hating myself for sounding so pathetic, I shake my head again and blink back tears. “Nightmare,” I mumble dejectedly, pulling my hands away from Sam’s in order to hug my arms around my chest. “I… I had a nightmare that… uh… made sense.”

“What?” Sam interrupts, reaching out and cupping my chin in the palm of his hand. “Nightmares aren’t meant to make sense and you know it…”

Refusing to yield to the slight pressure Sam’s hand is exerting on my jaw in an attempt to get me to look at him, I squirm away and fix my gaze stubbornly on the wall. “Because of my selfishness,” I whisper, “I was on a game show and… and I was going to get chopped up by a sword…”

“What?” Sounding – not that I can blame him – confused, Sam stands up and takes a step back from the bed. “Getting chopped up by a sword on a game show? Even for your warped subconscious that’s… uh… pretty special.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter as, suddenly faced with the thought that Sam may be going to wash his hands of me and leave the room, I hesitantly lift my head to face him. “Oh!” Too caught up in the aftermath of my nightmare to pay Sam any real attention, I notice that he’s dressed for bed and that his hair is looking decidedly sleep-ruffled. A quick glance at the clock-radio confirming that it is indeed the middle of the night and that I no doubt woke him, I sigh and shrug apologetically. “I’m sorry I got you up. Please, Sam, go back to bed. It was just a dream and I… I’ll be fine…”

“Uh-huh, fine…” Sam murmurs, walking over to the doorway before pausing and glancing over his shoulder expectantly. “Come on, then…”

“What?” Okay. So now it’s my turn to sound confused. “Sam…”

“You’re obviously wide awake,” Sam replies, turning around and leaning against the door-frame, “and, hey, I’m now wide awake as well, so, come on, we may as well try to do something about your sudden, misguided, I might add, sense of guilt.”

“Huh?” Curious as to what’s going through Sam’s mind, I clamber out of bed and follow him into the kitchen. “You… You don’t have to humour me, you know, and, seriously, if you want to go back to bed I really am fine,” I state quietly as, not really knowing what else to do with myself, I sit down on a stool in front of the breakfast bar.

“I’m awake now and this is something we were always going to have to talk about,” Sam responds with a clearly unbothered shrug as he retrieves two cups from a cupboard before starting to fiddle with the coffee machine. “Let’s face it, now is probably as good a time as any.”

“Mmm…” Maybe I took one too many blows to the head, but I can’t say I’m entirely convinced I know what Sam’s talking about and focus instead on the truly cheery sight of the coffee machine blinking into life. “Coffee?” I query hopefully. “I was beginning to think I was going be on the water-only diet for ever.”

Chuckling, Sam gives me a surprisingly fond look as he walks across the kitchen to the refrigerator. “Decaff only, I’m afraid. Some of us, after all, do still have to get enough sleep to function at work in the morning,” he replies, grabbing milk, butter and jam from the fridge. “Seeing as I have no idea when you last ate something, would you perhaps like some toast with your coffee?”

Strangely, although I hadn’t felt hungry until Sam mentioned food, I suddenly find that I’m starving and nod. “Please… Toast would be great, thank you,” I murmur as he pops two slices of bread into the toaster.

Silence descends on the kitchen as focussed on his task of going above and beyond the call of duty in respect to his self-imposed role of glorified baby-sitter – to, what exactly am I at the moment, the mentally unstable victim? – Sam busies himself with making the toast and coffee. Having nothing to do myself, my thoughts inevitably turn inwards and I begin to feel almost as worthless and as agitated as I did when he woke me.

It’s the middle of the night and not only did I wake Sam up and get him out of bed but now he’s making me something to eat and going out of his way to do the right thing by me while I…

While I do nothing other than take up space and disrupt his life. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing that I’ve said it before but feeling as though I have to say it again. “I’m sorry for putting you out like this and want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’re doing. I… I don’t know…”

“Don’t,” Sam interrupts, placing a cup of coffee in front of me before reaching over and giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Please, Chris, stop feeling as though you have to constantly apologise. A lack of manners never having been one of your faults, I know you’re grateful and really don’t need to keep hearing you say it.”

Curling my hands around the cup, I force myself to meet Sam’s gaze and smile weakly. “But…”

“For God’s sake, just drop it!” Sam exclaims, his eyes flashing with annoyance as, looking agitated, he grabs the freshly popped toast from the toaster and throws it down somewhat forcefully onto a plate. “Okay. Fine. If you’re going to insist on remaining on this path I’ll give it to you completely straight,” he continues, spreading butter on the toast in a slap hazard manner that tells me even more than his pissed off expression that I’ve somehow managed to push his buttons big time.

“Sam… I just…”

“Enough already!” Waving a knife dripping with jam at me, Sam waits until he’s assured I’m staring at him wide eyed before… getting it all off his chest. “Of course you’re bloody putting me out,” he states. “I could be happily asleep now but, no, instead here I am making a mess in the kitchen and trying like mad to control the urge to do my best to shake some sense into you. Oh, and while I’m at it, the last twenty-six hours haven’t exactly been a walk in the park either. From the shock of finding you like that in the apartment to hearing that it was actually your lover who’d put you through it… Shit, I’m still struggling to get my head around it all. I don’t see you for five fucking years and now you’re sitting here in front of me looking like something a feral cat has dragged in and, seriously, it’s doing my Goddamn head in!”

Never, not once in all the years I’ve known Sam have I ever seen him… vent… like this and I don’t know whether I should feel impressed that he’s now capable of sharing his feelings like this or whether I should be mortified that I’m the reason behind it. “Sam… I…”

A plate with two pieces of toast that a three year old would have been proud to have prepared being slapped down on the bench giving me all the hint I need that anything I may feel as though I have to say won’t be appreciated, I brace myself for round two and, as calmly as I can manage, take a sip of coffee.

“Wise choice,” Sam mutters, picking up his own coffee and walking across the kitchen to take a seat at the table. “As I was saying, there’s no denying the fact that you’re most definitely putting me out. The thing is though, and you’ve got to believe me here, Chris, I’m fine with it. I want you to be here where I can keep an eye on you and I don’t begrudge the time I’m spending on… or with you… look on it how you will… for a second. Yes, I could have gone to work today and, yes, I could be in bed asleep, but… I’m okay with how I spent my day and I’m okay that I’m sitting here now. We’ve shared enough in the past to make looking out for you instinctive and I know for a fact that if the tables were turned you’d do the same for me. So… Enough with feeling as though you have to apologise all the time, yeah?”

“Not to mention the small fact that I’ve never known you to do something you didn’t, for whatever reason, want to,” I reply softly as, taking Sam’s clearly heartfelt spiel as gospel and feeling as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I climb off the stool and carry my coffee and plate of toast over to the table. “Okay… You know I’m grateful for everything you’re doing and I know you’re cool with having your life turned upside down, so… I say thank you… for the toast and coffee… and suggest we move on, how does that sound?”

“Like you’re finally getting with the program, actually,” Sam retorts, saluting me with his coffee as I sit down at the table. “How about we start with what, ideally, you’re wanting to achieve, yes? Then we can settle down and work out the best way of going about it. Of course, if you’ve got any better ideas though then let’s hear them.”

Any… better… ideas? Christ, who’s he kidding? I don’t have any ideas period. No. I lie. Waving a magic wand and making everything both simultaneously go away and become instantly better. That’s the sort of idea I like. Failing that, I want…

I want to know that Phil’s okay and, at the risk of pushing my luck, I’d really kind of like to work out just what exactly it is I want from my own life. But that I suspect, going on current form, is just that little bit too much to ask.

“What I’m wanting achieve?” I echo, shrugging as I take a bite of toast. “I want, I think, to find Phil. Regardless of what he did I owe it to him to see that he’s okay.”

Settling back in his chair, Sam sips his coffee and looks at me closely. “Maybe it’s just idle curiosity making me ask this, and feel free to tell me to mind my own business if you take offence at it, but… Once you’ve found Phil, what do you plan to do? The way you carried on in the bedroom over reading too much into your nightmare makes me… fear… that you’ll stay with him in an attempt to assuage your guilt, and…” Trailing off, Sam – to my surprise and, to be honest, delight – blushes and stares down into his cup. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that as it’s nothing…”

“If I loved him, or had even at one point felt as though I loved him” I murmur, cutting Sam off because, strangely, for some reason it’s a question I feel as though I actually want to answer, “then… you’d probably have a point. But… I don’t love him and I don’t actually know if I can even forgive him for what he did. That aside though, I don’t want to simply abandon him. He shares my house, deep down I know him to be a good person and he needs help. To the best of my knowledge he doesn’t know anyone in London, he’s suffering from a drug induced psychotic break and I want to be able to both find him and get him on the road to recovery. I don’t, however, have any guilt riddled desire to stay by his side and pretend to love him because, well… because I think doing that has already caused enough trouble as it is.”

Nodding, Sam places his cup on the table and stands up. “Good. For you that’s a pretty sensible response,” he smiles, walking out of the kitchen. “Just going to get a notebook.”

Amused by Sam’s reply and feeling a lot better about things than when I woke up, I finish my toast and am just washing it down with a mouthful of coffee when he returns, notebook in hand and glasses on nose. “Don’t tell me your memory is going along with your eyesight,” I tease, earning myself a quick glare for my troubles as he grabs a pen from the breakfast bar before sitting back down at the table.

“As I suspect I’ll be the poor sod having to do the legwork in respect to whatever we come up with here, I just want to make sure I’ve got it all down,” he mutters, flipping the cover of the notepad open and tapping his pen on the blank paper. “Okay, you. Time to can the, unamusing, I might add, comedy act in favour of putting your thinking cap on. When I went back to the apartment last night to pick up your things I rang the receptionist and asked whether Phil had been back while she’d been manning the desk and she said that she hadn’t seen him. Couple that with the fact that I settled your account and returned the keys then perhaps we need to start with trying to work out where he might have gone.”

“That, and as I’m sure he wouldn’t have been able to get them through customs, where he got the Ketamine and steroids from,” I reply, gleefully giving Sam a smug look as, clearly amazed that I was actually able to come up with a valid suggestion, an expression of surprise settles over his face. “Ha! See, I’m not just a pretty face.”

“You say that without having looked in the mirror lately,” Sam retorts, jotting down some notes, “but, yes, I’ll concede you made a very good point. He had to get the drugs from somewhere and I hazard a guess that that somewhere probably would have been able offer him both.”

“Mmm… You’d think, wouldn’t you,” I respond, pleased with how easily this is going. “I don’t know about you, but I’d lean towards that somewhere most likely being a dodgy gym. They’re usually a good first stop source for steroids, and God knows there’s enough dodgy ones around.”

“And if it was one that catered for the gay market, given that I believe Special K is still predominantly seen as a ‘gay’ drug,” Sam continues, effortlessly taking up where I’d left off, “I’d say there’d be a really good chance of both drugs being on easy offer there. So, yes… I’ll start looking for gyms that meet our criteria or have had cause to be under investigation before. I’ll also access the CCTV footage from around the apartment to see if I can track his movements that way.” Pausing, he writes down a few more dot points before looking up and shrugging. “Wanting to cover all bases, I think I’ll also check the airlines to see if, by chance, he’s actually already left the country.”

Choosing against sharing the ‘I should be lucky’ comment that immediately jumps into my head in response to Sam’s idea of Phil already having gone back to the States, I take another sip of coffee and settle back in the chair. “Not wanting to sit around doing nothing while you do all the work, I’ll phone around and see if I can get in contact with any of Phil’s friends back in San Diego. Just because I had my head buried in the sand about his mood swings doesn’t have to mean they were as blinkered and may have some ideas as to where he was getting the steroids from.”

“I don’t mind doing the legwork. Despite what I thought the week was going to bring, there’s nothing much going on at work at the moment, so it’ll give me something to do,” Sam replies as, dropping the pen, he takes his glasses off and peers across the table at me. “You referred to San Diego by name just then, not as home,” he murmurs, “did you realise that? I’d have thought, especially seeing as you’ve lived there for three years now, that you’d have instinctively called it home.”

Had I realised I hadn’t… instinctively… referred to San Diego as ‘home’, why no, of course I hadn’t. Trust Sam, however, to seize on an innocent slip of the tongue and immediately make me doubt myself in ways I don’t even – consciously – want to contemplate. “Home… San Diego… Whatever,” I mutter, sounding even to my own ears defensive. “I live there, that’s all. It’s not as though I have any specific bond to the place or anything.”

“But you own a house there and, by all accounts, have settled there,” Sam responds, still looking at me closely as though he’s somehow reading me. “Doesn’t that make it home to you?”

“Home is…” Not knowing what to say, I fall silent for fear of finishing the sentence with the obvious ‘where the heart is’ statement and feign fascination with swirling what’s left of my coffee around in the cup. Home, to me… is a concept I’ve never really been on good terms with. Because of the constant moving from base to base when I was growing up I never really spent long enough anywhere to think of it as somewhere I would have been happy to stay indefinitely. Sure, I own property and live in San Diego, but would I care if I never saw the place again? The answer, somewhat sadly if not tellingly, is not particularly. I like it well enough, but that’s about it. The longest I’ve ever spent in one place was the five years I worked for CI5 in London and, yes, if put on the spot I’d have to admit that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to having what others would refer to as a home. In London I had everything I wanted and I was… happy. Everywhere else, regardless of what I had and the levels of contentment I was able to delude myself of possessing, I’ve simply… existed. 

Although I’m very confident he knows it already, Sam does not need to hear this from me though.

“Home is simply where you know the number for the local pizza shop without having to look it up,” I state blithely, fixing Sam with a pointed look and a forced smile. “Now, I think we’ve pretty much got everything covered, don’t you? You’re going to go through CCTV recordings looking for Phil’s movements and search around for a seedy drug den masquerading as a gym, while I’m going to glue the phone to my ear in the hope of digging up some information from his friends back… home…”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Sam replies as, yawning, he stands up and pushes the chair neatly under the table. “Seeing as I’ve got to get up in just over four hours,” he continues, picking up the dirty cups and my plate and carrying them over to the dishwasher, “I think the time has come to head back to bed. You’re right though, I think we’ve got enough here to go on and I hope you’re feeling a little more… in control… then when you woke up.” Yawning again, Sam finishes stacking the dishwasher and leans against the bench as I stand up and stretch. “You’re not to blame for this, Chris. Not loving someone you welcomed into your life and shared a house with is no excuse for what he did to you. Steroids and, who knows, possibly a pre-existing mental condition made Phil do what he did, not you. I know it’s probably going to be hard, but you’ve got to stop blaming yourself as it’s simply not going to achieve anything.” 

“Mmm…” Suddenly feeling both tired and sore, I hug my arms loosely around my chest and start to walk slowly out of the kitchen. Too wary of having the nightmare again to want to go back to sleep even though my body needs it, I toy with the idea of asking Sam if he has any sleeping pills lying around but can’t bring myself to actually do it as I don’t want to appear even more pathetic than I already do. He probably wouldn’t think anything of it, and I know he’d give them to me if he had any, but to seem so weak willed and fearful after he’s done his very best to boost me up with pep talks and words of assurance, well, it just doesn’t seem right. I want to prove to Sam that he’s right to have confidence in me and not just give him more proof that he’s fighting a losing battle to help me when I can’t even help myself.

“You okay?” Sam queries, his expression one of obvious concern as he walks over to join me. “You’re looking a lot.. greyer… than you did a moment ago. Did you get up too fast or something?”

“Must have,” I murmur, dropping my arms loosely to my sides and quickly shifting away from Sam. “Just… tired and achy, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get back to bed.”

“Assuming you don’t have the nightmare again, that is,” Sam replies. Looking me closely, he frowns, shrugs and turns the kitchen light off. “While I’m most likely some sort of fool for even suggesting this, perhaps you’d be better off if you came and slept with me. Unless I’m remembering things incorrectly, you never seemed to suffer from the nightmares when we slept together and I think in this instance you need your sleep more than we need to pussyfoot around our past. It is, after all, merely sleeping together in the same bed, nothing more.”

“Sam, I…” I know I should say thank you for the offer, but no, I really will be fine… as it’s the right, sensible response. What we shared together is history and Sam is simply being kind to me because I landed in his lap and he’s too polite to just leave me to fend for myself. But… Oh God… I can’t remember when I last wanted something so badly. To not be alone, to know that Sam was lying on the mattress next to me, to be able to sleep soundly safe in the knowledge that I’ve never had a nightmare with Sam in such close proximity.

To hell with it. While I may be too proud – or stupid – to ask for a couple of sleeping pills, I’m not too… intent on keeping up appearances… to decline Sam’s offer. “Thank you,” I whisper, reaching out and lightly trailing my fingers down Sam’s arm. “I… I’d like that a lot…”

I don’t add that it means a lot to me that he even remembers how well I used to sleep when we were together.

“Mmm… Come on, then.”

Unflappable, that’s Sam. Which only makes his earlier outburst so surprising and… heartfelt.

Stifling a yawn, I follow Sam as he walks through the living area to his bedroom. Entering it behind him, I nearly crash into his back as I immediately spot something that makes me smile. “You’ve still got the lamps,” I comment, gesturing at the antique art deco lamps on the bedside tables. I remember the lamps clearly because not only did I buy them from a snooty dealer with the kind of superiority complex that made me think having to sell them to an American was some sort of personal affront but also because of the stunned look of delighted surprise on Sam’s face when I gave them to him. “They look good in here.”

“They’re still the best present I’ve ever been given,” Sam replies indifferently as he sits down on the edge of bed and checks the alarm on the clock radio. Noticing the time, he groans and climbs under the duvet. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Uh… Nothing.” Quickly deciding that I’ll take the time to leisurely study the bedroom’s decor in the morning after he’s gone to work, I walk around the bed and lie down next to Sam. He watches me until he’s content that I’m settled before turning off the lamp and bathing the room in the darkness.

“Good night, Chris…”

“Night…” 

I’m now in a position I never once thought I’d find myself in again and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to it feeling rather good. There’s nothing sexual to it, and nor is there any hint of it being anything other than an act of kindness – if not self-preservation, as I’m sure Sam would rather be able to sleep through what’s left of the night without waking to the sound of me gasping and wheezing in the next room – but… Maybe it’s just a case of it not taking much to thrill me at the moment, but it honestly feels incredible. 

And, as I can’t say thank you for fear of pushing Sam’s buttons, there is one thing I can say and, to hell with it, I’m just going to say it.

“Sam…”

“Please, Chris… Just go to…”

“I know I’ve got no right to say this,” I murmur, pushing on and cutting him off, “but I… I’ve missed you…”

Sighing, Sam rolls over onto his side and presents his back to me. “You have this unfortunate habit of turning my life upside down, but, and God knows why… I’ve missed you too…” Pausing, he snorts as though wanting to deflect the moment. “Now shut up and go to sleep…”

~*~

“Uh-huh… See you soon.”

Ending the call, I drop my phone on the coffee table and settle back on the sofa. The time on the old mantle clock – the chiming of which used to, when I first started to spend time at Sam’s all those years ago, send me completely loopy before I eventually adapted to and then even began to appreciate – on the sideboard tells me that it’s just gone six and combining that with the timetable Sam just phoned to share with me I decide that’ll he’ll probably be home by seven and that, really, I won’t actually starve to death if I wait for him. Besides, as he’s picking up takeaway pasta from what was my favourite Italian restaurant when I lived in London for dinner on the way, it wouldn’t really be the done thing to fill up on yet another bowl of cereal – my food of choice for the day – before he got here.

My mind, much to my stomach’s chagrin, made up, I retrieve my bottle of water from between the sofa cushions and, all the time choosing to turn a blind eye to the three dirty bowls littering the once pristine coffee table, take a long drink. I know I should get up and place them in the dishwasher but, having only just made myself comfortable, can’t really, and there’s no two ways of looking at it, be bothered. Sam will no doubt go off at the sight of them lying, discarded, where in his mind they’ve got no right to be, but… That’s just life. I’ve never shared his obsessive neat streak and I think pandering to his OCD now would only make him think I’m more… out of sorts… that he already does.

Well, that’s my story and, even if it is only for reasons of sheer laziness, I’m sticking to it.

Returning my bottle to its hidey hole between the cushions, I stretch languidly and shoot a baleful glance at the television set. While Sam’s finally embraced large flat screen, plasma technology, he’s still holding out against the viewing benefits offered by Sky and I can’t believe in this day and age he’s content with the dross dished up by free-to-air. Granted, sitting staring aimlessly at the box has never rated all that highly on his list of favourite things to do, but… Seriously. I don’t know how he copes. I never got the hang of British television when I lived here and my brief foray into the world of channel surfing this afternoon hit me with the inescapable fact that it hasn’t exactly improved over the years.

Turning to the television for entertainment being out, I rest my legs on the coffee table and close my eyes. I’m not particularly tired, and I’m certainly feeling better than I did this time yesterday, but my energy levels are still a little on the lacking side and, having nothing pressing to do with my time while I wait for Sam, a quick nap strikes me as being just about as good as it’s going to get at the moment. And, hey, I think I deserve it too. Despite having spent most of the day sitting on my backside I’ve nonetheless been quite busy and feel that I’ve achieved a lot.

Having had twelve hours alone in it to… investigate… as I please, I now know my way around Sam’s apartment. It being a nice day, I even took lunch – which reminds me, there’s a bowl and an empty water bottle abandoned on the outdoor setting as well – on the balcony and, once I became accustomed to the almost forgotten sensation of fresh air and sunlight on my face, managed to work out where exactly in London I actually was. Not, once I thought about it, that it came as any great surprise. Sam had been talking about wanting to live in the Docklands before I left and I’m pleased that he’s been able to make his dream a reality.

I was also oddly pleased, although I’m not really certain that’s the right word for it, to discover a framed photograph of myself on top of the filing cabinet in the study. It’s nestled amongst a group of photos – hidden in the study in case, God forbid, a casual visitor dare accuse Sam of having feelings – and to the back, but I’d be lying if I said I expected to see it and have to confess to feeling just a tad touched by the fact he still thinks enough of me to have it at all. While I, of course, have photos of Sam, they’re all buried either in photo albums still in packing boxes or lost in God knows what folder in my laptop. Shutting myself off so completely from the past, I haven’t seen any of them since I packed them away and, again, knowing now that Sam has always kept one of me out is just… surprising.

In a good way.

Not that I’m allowing myself to make anything of it.

No. Of course not.

The other frame that drew my attention was the one containing Backup and Spencer’s wedding photo. They both look so gloriously happy and the sight of it yet again made me rue my pig headed insistence in respect to simply pretending my old life in London never existed from the moment the plane left the tarmac at Heathrow. If, like everyone else apparently did in respect to what I was up to, only I’d occasionally did a spot of online spying on my old friends instead of focussing solely on pushing forever forward. Hell, if only I’d actually opened any mail from Britain instead of either scooping it up and dumping it directly in the bin or sending it back return to sender. Not that I have anyone other than myself to blame. I would have loved to have been at their wedding and knowing that I could have if I’d had the brains to recognise an invite when I saw it doesn’t exactly help me feel any better.

Shit, as they say however, happens.

I apologised – yet again – to Backup when, after having no doubt pumped Sam for information about the latest mess I’d gotten myself into, she called this morning but, too intent on getting it all direct from the source, she didn’t want to hear it. Even though it’s not a story I derive any great pleasure from telling, it was still good to hear from her and, taking positives these days wherever I can get them, knowing that she cares enough to offer both hers and Spencer’s time if we need any help locating Phil was certainly nice.

Actual, the whole Phil thing aside, just about everything about being back in London and surrounded by the best friends I’ve ever had is nice.

Not that there’s anything to be read into it.

Again, of course not.

After I finally succeeded in getting Backup off the phone I had a call from McKinley just wanting to check I was still going okay and once I’d finished with him I was able to get down to the task of trying to track down Phil’s friends. Not having that many friends – or, alternatively, and I prefer to think of this as being the case, not being aware of many of them myself – the task wasn’t exactly an onerous one and I was able to hit pay dirt with only the third call. Although it was clear that Jarred, who we both know from the gym where we met, wasn’t overly rapt to hear from me he still managed to remain civil enough to tell me what I needed to know and I look forward to being able to add my small snippet of information to everything Sam’s been able discover. 

Between phone calls, touring the apartment, ferreting through the kitchen in search of cereal to eat, pill popping and napping, I think I’ve had a fairly busy day given my current state and doze easily off into a light sleep. Although it only feels like mere minutes have passed, the time on the mantle clock reads ten past seven when the sound of a key being turned in the front door jerks me awake.

“Making yourself at home, I see,” Sam comments, his gaze drawn, just as I knew it would, to the bowls – and probably my feet as well – on the coffee table.

Having still been asleep when he left this morning, this is the first I’ve seen of him all day and, hoping like crazy I hide it well, I find that I very much like what I’m looking at. If it were anyone else I’d say they were dressing to impress, but with Sam it’s always been more a case of simply looking good… instinctively. And today I personally think he’s excelled himself. Lilac shirt with the sleeves rolled up as a concession to the warm weather, dark, and an almost royal purple tie mostly hidden by a charcoal waistcoat made from the same classy looking fabric as his pants. “You’re looking good,” I state with a smile as I swing my legs off the table and heave myself up from the sofa. “Love the waistcoat.”

“Mmm…” Raising an eyebrow, Sam looks me up and down, taking in the crumpled navy blue t-shirt and once-black-now-more-dark-grey three quarter length cargo pants that were the first pieces of clothing I came across when I opened my suitcase. “If you’re waiting for me to return the compliment then, sorry, you’re going to be in for a long wait,” he murmurs, smirking. “I hate to say it, but you kind of still look as though you’ve been hit by a bus.”

“You always did know how to say the nicest things,” I retort, eyeing the take-away bags in Sam’s hand and following him into the kitchen. “Actually, you know those bruises on my torso? They’ve now changed colour since yesterday and are now a delightful dark purple tinged with yellow.” Pausing as Sam places the bags on the bench by the sink, I wait until he’s turned around to face me before reaching for the hem of my t-shirt and cheerfully adding, “Wanna see? They really are most spectacular.” 

“Er…” Hardly looking delighted at the prospect, Sam gives me an odd look and shakes his head. “It’s a kind offer, but ignorance, as they say, is bliss.”

Mock pouting, I affect a wounded expression and sigh. “Once upon a time you never would have knocked back a random flash of flesh,” I murmur, the words slipping out of my mouth even as I realise I’ve inadvertently stumbled onto what could easily be taken as thin ice.

“Maybe… But I never liked seeing you injured,” Sam replies quietly, his expression closing over, “and… And it was a long time ago.”

Mentally berating myself for having so carelessly soured the light hearted mood, I force my lips upwards in a grin and gesture at the take-away bags. “I’m starving, let’s eat!”

Looking relieved, Sam nods and sets about retrieving cutlery and plates and carrying them over to the table. “Starving? Going on all the bowls spread over the coffee table I have to say I was working on the assumption that you’ve actually done nothing but eat all day as it is,” he states facetiously. “Actually, out of curiosity, do I even have any cereal left?”

“I may have finished the Sultana Bran,” I reply, failing in my attempt to carry off an innocent expression and choosing to laugh instead. “Hey! If nothing else I won’t have to worry about being regular…”

“That falls into the realm of being far too much information,” Sam groans as he walks past me and picks up a bottle of red wine I hadn’t even noticed by the kettle. “I’d offer you a glass of this but don’t particularly want to be reminded of your lack of taste, so I guess it’ll just have to be more water.”

Wrinkling my nose and knowing not to even waste my breath on asking Sam whether he’s got any beer hidden anywhere, I grab a bottle of Evian from the fridge and make a show of taking the lid off and taking a long drink. “Delicious… and… refreshing. Can never get enough of the stuff.”

“Smart arse,” Sam retorts, pouring himself a glass of wine before carrying both it and one of the bags over to the table. “How are you feeling, anyway?” 

“Pretty good, actually,” I reply, walking over to the table and taking a seat. “The headache is down to a dull roar, I no longer feel as though I’m in constant danger of falling down when I’m on my feet and, artistic though they may look, the bruises aren’t anything I haven’t lived through before. I’m probably still a little tired, but, yeah, all in all I’m not too bad.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Sam responds with a quick smile as he sits down and reaches for the take-away. “Now, I don’t know about you but I’m all for eating first before getting down to going over everything I managed to find out today… Does that work for you?”

Nodding, I wave my hand impatiently at the bag. “Given that I’m feeling weak from hunger, of course it works for me. Now… What did you get?”

“Carbonara for you, and lasagne for me, same as always.” Laughing, Sam places a sealed plastic bowl on a plate and pushes it towards me. “Would you believe that Giuseppe, upon hearing that my order once again contained carbonara after all these years, asked if my, and I quote, ‘nice American friend’ was back in London. So… There you have it. Yet more proof that you’re nothing if not memorable.”

Lifting the lid, I breathe in the mouth watering aroma that immediately escapes from the bowl and, grinning, swiftly tip the pasta on to my plate. “I knew there was a reason I’d always liked Giuseppe. God, this smells good. I think I’ve tried every Italian place in San Diego and none of them come close to being as good as this. If I’ve got time and I remember I should drop in and tell him.” 

“You should,” Sam agrees, carefully using his knife to upend the lasagne onto his plate. “Especially as I would have completely forgotten how you always managed to add cheesecake to your order if he hadn’t reminded me. So, yes, before you ask or start to look around hopefully, there’s dessert.”

“Ah, Giuseppe, my hero. Maybe I’ll decide to move back to London just for his cooking and memory skills,” I respond blithely, picking up my fork and waiting for Sam to do the same. “What do you think, sound like a good reason to you?”

Taking a sip of his wine, Sam studiously avoids looking at me and gives the slightest of shrugs. “Well, it would certainly be… a… reason,” he murmurs flatly, returning his glass to the table and picking up his fork. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Suspecting I’ve yet again somehow managed to accidentally – yet effortlessly – put my foot in it, I nod my acceptance and we begin to eat in not entirely uncomfortable silence. After a while, once my tastebuds have confirmed beyond all doubt that Giuseppe’s carbonara does still taste as good as I remember it, I decide to throw caution to the winds and start to tell Sam about my day of many phone calls. To my relief he joins in the conversation without hesitation and between mouthfuls of food we make easy small talk until our plates are clean and I’m wondering if there’ll even be room left in my stomach for a slice of cheesecake.

“That was good,” I announce with satisfaction as, dropping my fork on the plate, I give Sam a rueful look. “I’m not entirely sure I can fit dessert straight on top of it though.”

“Maybe by the time the coffee’s made you’ll have changed your mind,” Sam replies, stacking my plate on top of his before standing up and carrying them over to the sink. “I mean, it would be a shame to see it go to waste.”

“Trust me, it won’t go to waste,” I reply, quite happily falling hook, line and sinker for Sam’s verbal game. “Even if I can’t fit it in tonight there’s always breakfast,” I continue, swivelling around in my chair so I can witness Sam’s reaction. “Let’s face it, you… are… out of Sultana Bran, so…”

“Enough!” Looking aghast at the very thought, Sam looks directly at me and shakes his head. “Only you, Chris, could suggest eating cheesecake for breakfast and actually give every impression of honestly thinking it was an… okay… idea.”

Laughing, I stand up and place the empty take-away container back in the plastic bag. “So says the man who can, and to this very day I can’t for the life of me understand how, eat parts of Kermit,” I snicker, wandering into the kitchen and placing the rubbish in the bin. “Oh, and by the way, your reaction? It’s good to see you’re still predictable when it comes to… culinary matters.”

“Having seen you eat pizza that wouldn’t have been out of place in a science experiment for breakfast, I suppose I should have taken the cheesecake idea as an improvement,” Sam replies with a smug smirk. “Keep up the hilarity though and I’m sure you’ll be able to fit in a slice in no time.”

“I’m counting on it, actually,” I murmur sweetly. “Now, how about cracking out the real coffee tonight? A good meal deserves to end on a better note than decaf.” 

“For a guest you sure are picky,” Sam mutters, turning the coffee machine on and retrieving two cups from the cupboard. “Your wish, however, is my command and real coffee it is. If you want to go take a seat on the sofa while I…”

“I’m good here,” I interrupt, patting my stomach. “Besides, the longer I stand the more the pasta settles and the quicker I can fit in a slice of cheesecake. Hey! It being more of a sating of curiosity thing than of any particular use, while we wait I can regale you with the truly tragic tale of why poor Phil felt he needed to bulk up.”

“I thought you said while we were eating that your phone call to… Jarred, was it, didn’t really give you anything,” Sam replies as, the coffee machine doing it’s thing and no longer requiring his assistance, he leans against the bench and gives me his full attention.

Shrugging, I lean against the breakfast bar opposite Sam and sigh. “Nothing that’ll help us locate him,” I correct, “but he was able to, somewhat huffily, I might add, explain what pushed Phil into thinking he needed the assistance of steroids. And, wait for it, this time it really is… despite the fact I was in complete blissful ignorance of it… my fault.”

“I thought we’d been through all of this before. While you could have perhaps handled things better, you’re still not to blame for Phil’s actions… and you most definitely didn’t deserve what he did to you.” Scowling, Sam fixes me with a stern look. “You can’t keep…”

“Actually, this really is my fault, but… but I don’t, can’t, really… blame myself.” Shrugging again, I roll my eyes and shake my head. “If the outcome wasn’t such a Goddamn mess you’d probably laugh. Seriously. It was such an innocent… meaningless… thing that I can hardly believe it was the catalyst for all of this. If he’d just said something at the time I could have set him straight and none of this would have even happened.”

And if steroid fuelled paranoia and rage hadn’t set Phil off I wouldn’t be standing here in Sam’s kitchen now and… Possibly irrationally, I don’t really know how I feel about… it all. Naturally, I would have preferred not to have been beaten, tied up and… yeah, well, still not thinking about that one… But… Would I be standing here if it hadn’t happened? I think not. And… I shouldn’t. It’s wrong. I have no right to be even daring to think it. But… I like where I’ve found myself.

I like it a lot.

It reminds me of when I last felt truly content.

And if that’s not a sad and sorry comment about my life then, really, I don’t know what would be.

“Okay. You’ve got my attention now,” Sam states, his expression one of open curiosity as, hoping my internal war of emotions isn’t clear on my face, I force myself to meet his gaze. “So, come on then, out with it. How, without even being aware of it, did you send Phil into the welcoming arms of steroids?”

Knowing that I have to choose my words carefully here as the basic truth of the matter – ‘by wishing you were by my side instead of him so I could have shared my amusement with you and you would have laughed with me without needing a long, drawn out explanation’ – wouldn’t exactly help, I think for a few seconds before replying. “It was about four months ago. Phil and I were at the gym. He actually liked to work out while I, well, while I liked to pretend that I liked to work out. Given that we worked wildly differing hours we didn’t usually get to go together very often and I can’t even remember how we’d managed it that day. Anyway, there we were. I’d had enough and was wanting to go, but Phil hadn’t reached however many reps he felt he needed on some machine or another, so I was just standing near him killing time and doing nothing in particular. Then I saw him. He was being given a tour by one of the staff members and, oh God, Sam, you’d have stared too!”

I hadn’t thought a thing of it at the time. My attention had been caught by the man because he’d reminded me of someone I’d encountered in the past and the memories inspired by the sight of him had caused me some amusement, that was all. By the time Phil had finished huffing and puffing on his machine and I was finally dragging him out the door I’d already forgotten about him. It was just a… nothing… moment that absolutely nothing should have come of. When Jarred mentioned it though… Sadly it all clicked into place and I remembered it immediately. What’s more, thanks to the benefit of hindsight, it even made sense. God knows it shouldn’t have and I still think Phil should have had enough intelligence to say something, but, yeah… I can see how it all started now.

“I would have?” Sam prompts, looking at me expectantly. 

“Uh-huh. You so would have,” I reply, nodding. Ignoring what it caused, sharing this part of the story is something I’m going to enjoy. “Remember Fredrick, hmm? The Muscle Mary from the gun smuggling case in deepest darkest Louisiana? The one who…”

“Picked me up as though I weighed little more than a rag doll and threw me into the koi pond?” Sam finishes drily. “Seeing as I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget being told that the damn fish I happened to land on… and subsequently squash… was worth more than my entire outfit, of course I remember the rock ape who threw me in. Mind you, I also remember how… uh… taken… he was with you and how he was still giving you hopeful little winks even as that inbred sheriff manhandled him into the police car. Oh! And the way he licked his lips, leaving that truly… appalling… shine of saliva nestling amongst the stubble… That was quite memorable too.”

“Okay. That part I didn’t need reminding of,” I groan, pulling a face and mock shuddering. “Given a choice I’d have taken pulling a koi out of my trouser leg over being the object of Fredrick’s affections any day. You, when you think about it, got off quite easily. Anyway! Back to the gym that fateful day. The guy being given the tour was, no shit, his freaking doppelganger. From the small, piggy eyes, to the size of his neck and the way his tree trunk legs rubbed together when he walked. He was stupidly big, he reminded me of Fredrick and, yeah, I stared at him. If you’d have been there you would have stared at him too. And… if we’d been there together we would have stared and laughed and that would have just been that.”

“Don’t tell me,” Sam murmurs, the merriment in his eyes disappearing as he works out where my tale is heading. “Phil thought you were looking at his muscles with admiration and came to the snap conclusion that that’s where your tastes truly lay and that he’d better do something about his own physique in order to, I don’t know, please you...”

Damn fool. One question. That’s all it would have taken to nip it all in the bud. But, no. He thought he was doing it all for my benefit. I stared at the guy because, clearly, I’d been keeping my love of huge, bulging muscles and prominent veins from him and, as a surprise, because he loved me, he decided he’d turn himself into what he believed I wanted. Only… Putting in extra hours in the gym and downing power shakes wasn’t enough. The muscles he needed to keep me weren’t coming quick enough so… having heard tales of success in the locker room… he turned to steroids.

Just… Stupid. So fucking stupid.

“You got it in one,” I sigh. “He thought I was looking at the Fredrick-clone with lust and that was it, he… knew… he had to bulk up. The only person he told of his plan was Jarred who, incidentally, claims to have tried to set him straight, but his mind was made up and he just… went for it like a man possessed.” Sighing again, I walk over to the bench and pull the cardboard box containing the cheesecake out of the second take-away bag. “Stupid, huh?”

“More… sad, actually.” Quickly grabbing two plates from the cupboard, Sam takes the cheesecake from me and dishes it up as I throw the bag in the bin. “I can… sort of… see how it made sense to him, but… If only he’d just said something to you…”

“Tell me about it.” My mood, which had taken a slight dip over thinking about how easily Phil could have avoided all this, brightening at the sight of dessert, I smile and take the plates over to the table. “Lemon! My favourite. Have I already mentioned tonight how much I love Giuseppe?” 

The coffee machine having finished spluttering out two cups of coffee, Sam carries them over and hands me one before taking a seat. “So, what you’re really saying is that Phil would have been far better off mastering the art of cheesecake making than trying to impress you with his ill begotten muscles, mmm?”

“Absolutely!” I agree, sitting down and reaching for my spoon. “I’d take cheesecake over muscles any day of the week. If… If only he’d said something, you know? Just… What a fucking mess. He thought he was doing something, I suppose, nice for me, I never really loved him and, if pushed, probably thought I was doing something… nice… for him by feigning affection and letting him live with me, and now… Here we are. On the off chance you were questioning it, here, have a little more proof that the world sure does move in mysterious ways.”

“Oh, that’s not something I’ve ever been foolish enough to question,” Sam replies softly as he takes a sip of coffee. “Everything will work out, you’ll see. Now… Eat your cheesecake and then we’ll go into the living room and I can bring you up to speed on everything I managed to come up with today.”

“Yes, boss.” Sam’s request or, alternatively, order not being one I feel any need to argue with I slowly eat the – truly wonderful – cheesecake and wash it down with coffee. Once Sam’s finished his dessert we silently clean the table and stack the dishwasher. Although I hadn’t, having been kept relatively occupied with phone calls and… snooping… before Sam came home and commandeered my attention, thought too much about what his investigations may have thrown up, I now find myself suddenly curious and looking forward to hearing what he’s discovered.

First things, however, first.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, walking out of the kitchen and heading in the direction of the bathroom. “The problem with all this damn water I’ve been pouring down my throat is that it’s got to go somewhere.”

“Think positively,” Sam calls out in response as he heads towards his bedroom, “at least you’re no longer dehydrated. I’ll just be a moment myself and then we’ll meet in the living room.”

“Uh-huh.” Entering the bathroom, I relieve myself, wash my hands, and am just settling myself on the sofa when, carrying a laptop, Sam joins me. He’s lost the tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat and I’m saved from having to pretend not to stare appreciatively by the strange sensation of something poking me in the backside from between the sofa cushions. “What the…” Ferreting the bottle of water that I’d dropped there earlier out from the sofa, I grin sheepishly and shake my head. “You don’t have to say it…”

“Maybe not, but I’m going to anyway,” Sam replies, his expression a familiar one of bemusement as he takes a seat in the armchair and settles the computer on his lap. “Still a complete and utter slob, I see.”

“I knew where it was,” I lie with another grin as I watch Sam open the laptop and hit a few keys on the keyboard before grabbing the remote from the coffee table and turning the television on. “Impressive,” I add as the computer’s wallpaper appears on the screen before me. “Embracing wireless technology. As someone who I used to think would be far happier writing reports on parchment in a fountain pen, you surprise me.”

“I thought this would be preferable to having you and your bruised ribs hunched over the laptop,” Sam responds coolly, gesturing at the television. “Oh, and I had nothing to do with setting it up. Hell, I didn’t even want it… but Spencer thought he was doing me a favour and I just left him to it because it was easier than arguing and Backup wanted the house to herself in order to arrange a surprise party. This is the first time I’ve even had cause to use it.” 

Weddings. Births. Surprise parties. Favours from friends for no other reason than they genuinely think they’re doing you a kindness… I wonder what else I’ve missed? Suddenly the mundane sense of contentment I’d fooled myself of possessing in San Diego is looking colder and harsher by the second. I never felt particularly unhappy, and I never looked inwards long enough to feel sad and sorry for myself, but…

Not that it matters, and not that I really have anyone else to blame for either my move or the state of my life other than myself. Me, me, me. I, continuing a time honoured and well honed theme, chose flight over fight and that’s simply all there is to it. My fault, and my loss.

“If you hit me with a PowerPoint presentation I may start to think I’m at a seminar or briefing,” I murmur at last, rolling the bottle of water between my hands as Sam continues setting up the computer.

Looking satisfied with himself as CCTV footage from the street my apartment is on appears on the television screen, Sam glances over at me and shakes his head. “No. No PowerPoint. You should actually consider yourself lucky I remembered to put it on the flash drive otherwise this would be all tell and no show.”

“Well, I thank you for thinking of my short attention span,” I reply, settling back on the sofa and making myself comfortable. “Am I right in thinking you’ve been able to come up with something good seeing as it warrants a display?”

“I wasn’t able to find Phil, sadly, but I did manage to come up with a fair bit and, perhaps most importantly I think I’ve been able to work up a way that should hopefully lead to him,” Sam responds, “but I’ll get to that in a moment. First though the, you could say, bad news. I searched the airlines and couldn’t find any sign of him having left the country. So… He’s still here, somewhere. I also checked into his finances and think he’ll pretty much have to be running on empty already. Like you he only booked a one way flight, but that took almost half of his savings. Take the cost of the steroids and Ketamine out of what little remained and, well, I don’t think he’d have much left.”

“So much for saving to get his own place,” I mutter bitterly. “Shit! That came out wrong. I don’t care about him… sponging off me, but… wasting all that money on drugs? He used to be so careful and was so proud of his nest egg, that… Goddamn it! Right now I think I’m more annoyed by his… stupidity… than I am over what he did. If… Fuck! If only I’d asked him what was up or… I don’t know! Done something!” 

Frowning, Sam glances up from the laptop and fixes me with a stern look. “Phil chose to do these things all off his own bat,” he states in a tone of voice that tells me I’d be wasting my breath if I tried to argue. “You didn’t hold a gun to his head, Chris, and you’re not to feel responsible for any of it. Steroids are capable of making people do stupid things and I think it’s fairly obvious that Phil was more susceptible to their… worst… side-effects than perhaps others. That’s unfortunate, for sure, but it’s still down to him and him alone. You may, hell, knowing how your mind works at the best of times you probably do, think I sound harsh but… It’s just how it is. You can want to help pull him out of the hole he’s dug for himself, and that’s very noble of you in itself given everything he did to you, but don’t beat yourself up over how you both reached this point. It won’t achieve anything and, worse, will only detract from trying to set things right.” 

“Ever thought of taking up motivational speaking?” I murmur with a grateful smile, Sam’s words as always hitting their intended target and making complete sense to me. “You’re right, of course. It’s just… Never mind. The past is past and all that. So… Where were we? Phil hasn’t left the country and it’s doubtful that he has much money left. Do you think he’s still in London?”

“If you promise to sit there quietly and not interrupt I can hopefully answer most of your questions,” Sam replies, returning his attention to the laptop and touching a button that brings the image on the television screen to life. “Now… After accessing DMV records to get a photo of Phil in order to know who I was looking for, I was able to pick him up from the moment he hit customs at Heathrow on Friday afternoon…”

Not having anything to add, I listen to Sam as he shares what he’s been able to discover about Phil’s movements. After clearing customs and picking up his luggage – the one bag that Sam retrieved from the apartment – he caught the tube into London and, after some dithering in the station while he tried to get his head around the various tube lines, from there made his way to Bethnal Green. He then walked to a gym called Hard Body and disappeared inside for a few hours. When he emerged he caught the tube back to Earle’s Court and booked into a cheap and dingy motel. He paid for two nights, Friday and Saturday, and after booking out Sunday morning hasn’t been back. Instead of seeing the sights or doing any of the touristy things in London, Phil kept to a very small path and simply went back and forth along it. Saturday he alternated between the gym, his motel and lurking outside my apartment in Kensington. The same went for Sunday, only this time he had his bag with him and he managed to sweet talk his way past the receptionist and into my apartment, which is where he was lying in wait after Sam dropped me off.

For the next three days the only change in his routine was that he had to make his way to the gym from Kensington instead of Earle’s Court. Other than that everything was basically the same and the siren call of Hard Body saw him leaving the apartment and spending about three quarters of his day there. Although his path didn’t differ, even the grainy CCTV footage was able to pick up the changes in both his appearance and personality. From being a little hesitant and harried – a stranger in a strange land – on Friday, by Wednesday when he left me tied to the bed and never came back he was looking, unkempt, unshaven and perhaps just that little bit wide eyed, wild haired, twitchy and, well, crazy.

“Why come to London to see the sights when you can find yourself a scungy drug dealing gym and simply make yourself at home there,” I mutter as, his picture show finished, Sam turns off the television and closes the laptop before leaning forward and placing it on the coffee table. “I’m right in assuming, yeah, that the delightfully named Hard Body is where he was scoring from…”

“You’ve got it in one,” Sam confirms, stretching his legs out and slumping more comfortably back in the armchair. “I had a look into the place and it’s quite well known for being the stamping ground for pushers pushing anything from anabolic steroids to the old classics of coke and heroin. As it doubles as a nightclub over the weekend though and, as you suggested last night, caters to the predominantly gay market, it’s one of those… par for the course… type places. Yes, we know it has a drug problem, but it’s considered small fry and not worth the man power of stomping out when there’s far bigger dealers out there causing far more havoc. I sent an officer in armed with a picture of Phil taken from the CCTV footage, but while a few there owned up to recognising him no one knew where he might have gone after he left on Wednesday. And, no, before you ask the obvious, CCTV wasn’t able to pick him up either because he must have left by the side door which, of course, isn’t covered by a camera. Oh, and he hasn’t been back since then either.”

“So he’s in the wind then,” I sigh. “You said something earlier though about thinking you’ve been able to come up with a way to find him. Care to… uh… elaborate? Maybe I’m still concussed and not thinking my best, but if he hasn’t been back to Hard Body, which seemed to be his home away from home in London, where on earth could he be?”

“I have no idea where he could be,” Sam replies. “But, think about it for a second. Everything seems to revolve around the gym. Phil must have had a contact there, someone he scored off. He was also last seen there after, I assume, he realised he’d gone too far with… how he’d treated you. So… Where does that leave us? Maybe he wanted more drugs that he could no longer pay for and his contact has put him to work to cover his bill. Before you get agitated, there’s never been any reports of anything particularly nasty linked to Hard Body. No violent beatings, no guns. None of the usual stuff at all. In fact, as drug dealers go the lot that hang out there seem positively civilised. By working I’m leaning more towards being kept in a back room somewhere packaging the stuff or something like that. Alternatively, maybe he’d made a friend there and he’s now staying with him. Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know however is that the gym is most definitely our most promising in.”

Pleased that at least one of us is currently capable of rational thought, I bite back another sigh and ask the expected question. “You’ve got a plan, haven’t you?”

“Mmm… I’ve had better, but I still think it’ll work,” Sam responds. “Phil, despite being fresh off a plane, clearly having no problems with scoring, I propose to simply follow his lead and go in looking to score. Given that the law has already been through searching for him, they’d probably be wary of anyone else going in and asking around, and I also wouldn’t be surprised if they’re not so… open and willing… to take on a new customer so soon after the law had been sniffing around, but… Business is business. You’re not going to make a particularly successful drug dealer if you’re not prepared to take risks.”

“So… You’re thinking once you’ve confirmed who the dealer is, he’ll be able to lead you to Phil, yeah?” It’s far from being the most elaborate plan I’ve ever heard but I think it will work. When it comes to Phil’s time in London all roads definitely lead back to Hard Body so it’s an obvious place to go in search of information. 

“That’s pretty much the plan,” Sam agrees, looking over at me as though he’s waiting for me to argue or, proving that he’s a firm believer in hope over experience, come up with a better idea. “Something having come up on a case I’m working on, I’ve got to go in to the office tomorrow morning which is going to delay things a little, but I should be able to get to the gym in the afternoon. As I’ve already mentioned, I suspect they’ll be a little jumpy and won’t fall for my ‘new in town and looking for… assistance’ act immediately, so it may take a couple of visits, but…”

“I’ll do it,” I interrupt, seizing on an opening to actually be of some use and causing Sam’s expression to change to one of annoyed surprise. “Hey! Stop looking at me like that. You’re busy, it’s my mess and… and I’m not entirely useless, I’ll have you know! Go in, look lost and pitiful, befriend a few of the locals and put the word out that I’m wanting to score. You know, I think I can just about manage that.”

Scowling, Sam stands up and querulously folds his arms across his chest. “In case it’s slipped your mind, you’re injured and hardly look well enough to leave the apartment let alone work up a sweat at a gym,” he retorts. “I should be finished what I have to do by early afternoon and I’ll be fine…”

“It’s my mess,” I repeat, cutting Sam off again and, not liking the way he’s towering over me, clambering to my feet. “I thank you for everything you’ve done and, hell, I’m really grateful that you’d give up your free time to do this for me, but… I can do it. Honestly, Sam, I’ll be fine. Besides, as you just so kindly pointed out, I look like shit and I think I’ll be able to use that my advantage.”

“Assuming you even make it through their door without collapsing in a heap,” Sam replies sourly as, clearly agitated, he begins to pace in front of the television. “I know you want to help, but I really don’t mind doing this for you and don’t know why…”

“I won’t collapse in a heap in their doorway,” I continue, pressing on as though Sam had never spoken, “and looking like this will work in my favour. Trust me on this. I’ll sell it that my lover, who, yes, I am stupid enough to love even though he treats me like dirt, has a temper and pushes me around and that, having had enough of this, I want to bulk up so I can stand up to him instead of just taking it. For God’s sake, look at me! They’ll only have to take one look at me to believe I’m telling the truth.”

“Especially if said arsehole lover puts in an appearance at some point and roughs you up some more,” Sam murmurs thoughtfully as he sinks back down in the armchair and runs his fingers through his hair. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not entirely rapt in the idea, but you may have a point. By looking decrepit you’ll give the impression of needing help more than I would and that’ll probably mean you’ll be able to get a quicker result. I… I just hope you’re up for it.”

Covering a yawn with my hand, I shrug and, wanting to disguise how light headed I’m suddenly feeling, casually walk over to lean my back against the wall. “I can’t mooch around your apartment for ever and I’ll be fine,” I reply, quickly running through my spur of the moment plan in my head. “Not having come to London to exercise, I’ll go out tomorrow morning to purchase some sports gear before coming back here and having a rest. Then, early afternoon I’ll catch a cab to the gym and put on my little performance before, still conserving my energy, catching a cab back. See? I’ll be fine.”

“Plan to leave the gym at half past three and I’ll be out the front to pick you up,” Sam states in his best ‘don’t even dream of arguing with me’ voice. “If you’ve still got an audience at that point I can be your overbearing and bullying lover looking as though I’m checking up on you.”

“Plus I’ll get a lift,” I respond, yawning again and earning myself a knowing look from Sam. “Works for me, and... It’ll work, Sam. Don’t worry. I’ll buy one of those lovely tank tops with the gaping sides to show my stunning bruises off and they’ll be all over me.”

“I just want you to be careful and to not do anything stupid,” Sam replies as he glances at his watch and stands up. “As I know that I’m not going to be able to talk you out of it, you win though and we’ll do it your way. Looking at you now though, you seem knackered and I think the only prize on offer for winning is to go to bed.”

“Mmm… Not even gonna argue with you there,” I murmur, drawing on a reserve of willpower to push myself away from the wall. “You’ll see though, tomorrow I’ll be fine,” I add through another yawn as I make it to the doorway before, hesitating over what direction to head in, coming to a stop. “Sam… I…”

Is it wrong that I want to ask Sam if it would be okay if I slept with him again? Given that I’m far from fully healed, have no small amount of pain killers running through my system and am worried about Phil, I know I’ll have a nightmare if I’m on my own, but… So what? The fact that I have nightmares is like the whole grass is green, the sky is blue, and the Pope is Catholic thing. In other words, it’s a given. Not to mention I’ve had enough of the bastards to know I always manage to shake them off. I wake up moaning or screaming, stay awake long enough to calm down, then go back to sleep. Big deal. 

Given a choice though, I… I’d just rather not go through it if I didn’t have to.

“Having slept through your snoring last night, I think I can survive sharing my bed with you again tonight,” Sam announces softly, his breath warm against the back of my neck as he places his hands on my shoulders. “You’re a nuisance, but you’re a nuisance I’m used to, so… Go on. I’ll just tidy up in here and have a shower before joining you.”

His piece said, Sam gently propels me towards his bedroom before walking into the kitchen.

Smiling to myself, I murmur, “thank you,” under my breath even though I know he can’t hear me and, with a very small spring in my step, set about preparing for bed.

~*~

There being little else to do in the room, I watch the aerobics extravaganza being performed on the wide-screen television and can’t for the life of me quite work out how it makes me feel. I suspect its intent is to either invigorate – oh my God, yes! I too want to prance around like that in the name of fitness – or turn on – oh my God, yes! Let me at the instructor before I spontaneously combust – but, I’m sorry, it’s just really not working for me. Watching the over-tanned, over-toned, over-peroxided man with the inane grin and itty-bitty electric blue shorts (with, wait for it, matching leg warmers) shake his ass to the latest Madonna song, just… leaves me feeling bemused. And perhaps, although I don’t really want to admit it, just that little bit… old. I don’t want him, and I’ll embrace the physique of the couch potato before I indulge in just whatever the hell it is he’s doing and…

Wonderful. Now he’s picked up a pair of maracas and upped the tempo of his ass shaking.

Just what have I gotten myself in for here? Until having my visual and aural senses assaulted by the aerobics demonstration I’d been pleasantly surprised at Hard Body’s professionalism. Although the somewhat ‘abandoned warehouse’ look of the exterior left a fair bit to be desired, what I’ve seen of the interior so far has actually impressed me. Décor that successfully manages to combine what’s in vogue with classicism without looking as though it’s trying too hard and polite, clearly well trained staff that give every impression of being only too happy to look after your needs. Not really having expected all that much from a place that we suspect of being an easy source of drugs, everything I’ve seen so far has actually reeked of it being a quality establishment. After presenting myself at the reception desk and expressing my interest to join I was given a tour before being allowed to change, weighed and ushered into this room to wait for my complimentary personal trainer to join me for a ‘chat’.

And, again, this really had been all good and reassuring. I just think, given a choice, I would have preferred to have avoided the… ‘entertainment’… while I waited. I can understand it’s a form of advertising, and I’m also quite sure my lack of appreciation for the instructor places me in the minority, but… Dear God, make it stop! My ribs are beginning to ache from merely watching his shimmying and I honestly think I’m in danger from being blinded by the brilliant wattage of his smile.

“Bazza sure is something, ain’t he?” an Australian accented male voice suddenly announces with obvious pride from the doorway. “Man, if I only looked half as good in those hot pants as he does.”

“Bazza?” I echo politely as, relieved that the show is finally going to get on the road, I swivel around in my seat and face the man. Like the guy on the screen he’s far too familiar with the art of the fake tan, but unlike the gloriously lithe… Bazza… his hair appears naturally blond and his physique screams of work outs revolving far more around weights than it does of bouncing around to Madonna. Not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, he immediately makes me think me of the stereotyped bronzed Aussie lifesaver look and it’s one, right down to the Australian flag tattooed on his left bicep, he embraces for all it’s worth. And, what’s more, I’ve actually got to say it works for him too.

“The hot little thing taking the aerobics class,” he explains, grinning as he gestures at the screen. “His classes are usually booked out weeks in advance, but if you’re interested just let me know and I’ll get you in. Name’s Greg, by the way. I’m here to see how Hard Body can help you get the fitness or body you desire.”

Standing up, I extend my right hand towards Greg and smile. “Chris. Pleased to meet you.”

“Jesus, mate!” Greg exclaims, ignoring my proffered hand and grimacing as he stares at the bruises on my torso which, just as I’d mentioned to Sam last night they would be, are shown off to their best advantage by my white, extremely gaping tank top. “Just… Bloody hell! What happened to you, huh?”

Lowering my hand, I don’t have to fake the blush I can feel staining my cheeks and shrug dismissively. Greg’s reaction to my injuries is exactly what I wanted, but it doesn’t mean I’m still not embarrassed by having them on show. “Don’t worry about them,” I murmur, avoiding Greg’s concerned gaze and toying with the sweat band – covering the still red skin -- encircling my left wrist. “They… They look worse than they actually are.”

“Somehow I’m not sure I believe you,” Greg replies, indicating that I should return to my chair as he walks across the room and takes a seat by the television. Retrieving a tiny remote from the pocket of his shorts, he turns the screen off and peers at me closely. “If you’re in trouble I may be able to help you. I know a good counsellor who…”

“I’m fine,” I interrupt, settling back in my seat and glancing at him shyly. Okay. Greg already wants to help me, which means I’ve got my in. “If I had any brains I wouldn’t have worn this top and you never would have known they were there, but…” Pausing as I can feel my acting skills coming to the fore, I smile wryly and shrug. “Not thinking though, that’s me all over. Sa… Uh… Stuart's always said that if I was paid to think I’d be destitute and living on the streets.”

“Chris…” Frowning, Greg leans forward and places his hands lightly on my knees. “I know we don’t know each other, but I’m sure…”

“I love him,” I murmur, moving my knees away from Greg’s touch as, folding my arms across my chest, I shoot him a warning look. “And, you’re right. You don’t know me and I’d appreciate it if you could focus on your job instead of… trying to save me from what I don’t need saving from! I… What I want is to know whether you can help me get a body like yours, not to hear… uninvited… comments on my private life. If you don’t think you can work with me then…”

“Whoa… Dude!” Holding his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender, Greg sits back and flashes me an unbothered smile. “You’re right. What you do in your personal life is none of my business and I apologise if you thought I stepped over the line. We take the well-being of our clients very importantly at Hard Body and I just want you to know that if you ever… uh… want to talk to someone that I can help point you in the right direction.”

“All I want help with is muscle building,” I state lightly, backing my response up with a spot of charades-like bicep curling. “Stuart’s developed a taste for muscles and, well, as you can see I’m lacking in that department, so… Basically I wanna look more like you and… the sooner the better, if you know what I’m saying. Whatever it takes, so long as it doesn’t take forever, you know?”

Choosing to ignore my blatant willingness to cheat nature, Greg consults a piece of paper pulled from his pocket. “You’re not overweight and, if your body is anything to go by, you appear to be reasonably fit,” he murmurs, “so I’m confident we’ll be able to help you. It’ll take some hard work on your part, and you’ve got to be willing to put in the effort but, hey, trust me, Chris. You’ve come to the right place.”

“That remains to be seen,” I mutter sourly, making no attempt to disguise my lack of delight at Greg’s response. “Along with being a little…uh… thick… I’ve never really had any success with following through with anything either, so I’m just saying now that I hope it doesn’t take too long and would love you forever if you could come up with a way of making it as speedy and as painless as possible,” I continue, lightening what I hope Greg takes to be the true meaning behind my words with a grin. “I like it here though, and have every confidence in you being able to see me right, so… What have you got for me, huh?”

His expression unreadable, Greg returns his piece of paper to his pocket and stands up. “Usually I’d take you through your paces so I could get a better picture of where you’re at but, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not actually sure you’d be up for it today. I can see that the bruises are healing, but I don’t want to put any pressure on your torso until they’re fully healed, so…”

“But that could take weeks,” I complain with a sigh as I get to my feet. “I… I’m sorry. It’s just that I heard Hard Body was the place to go when you needed help fast…” Not wanting to overplay my hand, I shrug and smile weakly. While I’m sure Greg both knows what I’m angling for and where I could get it from, I would be surprised if he turned out to be the dealer. “Sorry, sorry. You’re the boss. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“You just need to take it easy, at least for the next few days,” Greg replies, walking over to he doorway and waiting for me to join him. “As you’ve already changed into your gear, how about I show you to the equipment room and you can get in a session on a treadmill. Then tomorrow, if you can make it, maybe a swim along with another session on the treadmill or bike. Just… ease yourself into it. I’ll monitor you, which will help give me the data I need, and then I’ll come up with a plan for hitting up the weights.”

“Sounds good,” I state, trying to sound enthusiastic as I follow Greg through the door and down the corridor to the equipment room. “Thank you for your time and attention today, Greg, and I look forward to being able to work with you,” I add as we come to a stop outside the door that will lead me to the treadmill which, honestly, I have no great desire to see. I’m here, after all, for leads, not exercise. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Greg nods and claps me on the shoulder. “I have the afternoon off, so if you could get here in the morning that’d be great,” he smiles. “Work with me, Chris, and I’ll get you the body you want. You have my word on it.”

“Mmm… I’m counting on it,” I reply, watching Greg saunter off before glancing at my watch and seeing, much to my disgust, that I’ve got another thirty minutes to kill before Sam picks me up. This means, needing to keep up appearances, I’ll actually have to spend some time on the damn treadmill and to say this doesn’t exactly thrill me is an understatement. Although I won’t admit it to Sam, coupling this visit to the gym with my brief shopping foray this morning has really taken it out of me. I ache, my head hurts, I hate having these damn bruises on show for everyone to gawk at, and…

Look. There’s a man with dreadlocks and a t-shirt with a marijuana leaf on the front staring at me with a smile on his face as he pedals furiously on an exercise bike.

Excellent. The show then, must go on.

Plastering a grin on my face, I stride into the equipment room and make for the closest available treadmill. Climbing on to it, I set it in motion, idly wish I had my iPod so I could at least look as though I’d planned to be here, and start to walk. Hard Body clients being a friendly, chatty lot – failing that, they’re all on the make and I’m considered fresh meat – a number of men come up to say hello and offer unasked for advice as I pretend I’m happy to be walking on the spot and the time passes surprisingly quickly. When my time is up I say a cheery farewell to my new friends and head for the locker room. 

Although I’d quite like a quick shower and, thanks predominantly to my time in the navy, have never had a problem with open showers, nudity and other men doing their best to feign disinterest in checking everyone else out, I decide against it and simply get changed back into my jeans and short sleeved shirt. The bruising being out in the public domain I can just about handle. The scabbing over, crescent moon shaped fingernail marks on my hips however… Not really having any other cause that I can think of off the top of my head, they just don’t need to be on show. I’ll wear looking like someone’s punching bag, but I’ll be damned if I’ll look like…

Annoyed at myself for even thinking along these lines, I zip my boots up, throw my stuff into my bag and, with a few more goodbyes to men I’ve never seen before, make my way out onto the street. The time now being twenty to four and being fully used to Sam always being on time, I’m a little nonplussed when my scan of the street comes up with no sign of his black Audi. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I check for any messages or missed calls and when I see that I have neither I start to scroll through my contact list for Sam’s number. The door to Hard Body opens behind me just as I find it and, hesitating over hitting dial, I watch as a man I recognise from the equipment room walks through it and heads down the street.

“Oi!” a male voice suddenly shouts, causing both of us to jerk our head around to seek out the source of it. “Over here, stupid!”

To my astonishment the owner of the loud, Cockney voice is Sam and I stare at him wide eyed and open mouthed as, not content with getting my attention, he continues to yell at me over the roof of a silver Aston Martin Vantage.

“What are you waiting for, a bloody written invitation?” he continues, glaring at the other man as he too stares at him. “Come on! Either get in the car now or I’m leaving you here and I don’t care how you get home!”

Shaking off my shock – Sam yelling and behaving like an arrogant git isn’t the issue as I know he’s only helping me cement my role of being downtrodden, it’s more the gorgeous car he’s leaning against that’s getting to me – I flash an embarrassed smile at the man and scurry over. “I’m sorry. If I’d known you were…”

“Just shut up and get in,” Sam commands as he glowers at me for a few seconds before climbing behind the wheel of the Aston and pulling the door shut with a bang.

Not needing telling twice, I hurriedly get into the car and throw my bag into the back. I’ve only just got the door closed when, with a vaguely thrilling squeal of the tyres, Sam pulls away from the curb and we’re on our way.

“So, how’d it go?” he queries as, not wanting my nose to become intimately acquainted with the windscreen courtesy of Sam’s, at best, erratic driving – he drives like a loon in what passes as a normal car, so I shudder to think what he’d be capable of in this – I pull my seatbelt on.

“Stuff the gym,” I retort, gesturing around the interior of the car. “It can wait. What I want to know is where you picked this fabulous machine up from and, of even more pressing importance, whether or not you’re going to allow me to take it for a spin.”

Grinning, Sam shoots me a smug, if not downright superior look. “In answer to the first part of your question, I borrowed it from our seized goods lockup in order to make a lasting impression on anyone lurking outside the gym. And, in answer to the second, more… plaintive… part of the question… In your dreams, Keel. You have no idea the amount of paperwork I had to fill out just to take it for the weekend. Paperwork that, I hasten to add, is in my name and my name only.”

“Spoilsport,” I pout, making a mental note to try my best to get behind the wheel tomorrow as he mentioned having it for the whole weekend. “Actually, on the subject of names… If anyone from the gym asks, your name is Stuart.”

“Stuart?” Sam raises an eyebrow and ignores a stop sign, nearly causing an old woman in a Morris Minor to both clip our bumper and no doubt contemplate handing in her license. 

“Mmm… Stuart,” I confirm, turning around to watch through the back window as the old lady pulls very shakily over to the curb and buries her head in her hands. “I almost let slip with Sam but, I don’t know, it just didn’t seem right somehow using your name in relation to a punch-happy thug and… Stuart slipped out.”

Shrugging his acceptance, Sam – at the very last moment possible – acknowledges that the red light in front of us isn’t going to change just because he wants to go through the intersection and slams on the brakes. “Stuart it is then,” he murmurs, putting on quite the performance of running his hands over the steering wheel. “She really does handle like a dream. In fact, I can honestly say I’ve never driven a car like her before.”

Knowing that he’s simply trying to push my buttons, I cheerfully mutter, “Bite me!” before making an obvious point of changing the subject. “I know you don’t care ‘cos you’re too busy drooling on the Aston here, but I think I pretty much did okay at the gym. I’ve been given a personal trainer called Greg – who, seriously, looks as though he should be wearing red Speedos and patrolling a beach in Australia somewhere – and I laid my need for super-quick muscles on him pretty thickly. I don’t think he’s our guy though as he seemed more interested in sending me to a domestic violence counsellor than trying to sell me steroids.”

“So the bruises worked in your favour then,” Sam replies with a sigh as the lights turn green and we’re exceeding the speed limit even before we’ve crossed the intersection. “Just because this Greg didn’t immediately fall for your story doesn’t mean he won’t mention it in passing to the one we’re after.”

“He expects to see me there tomorrow morning,” I respond, sneaking a glance at the speedometer and not being at all surprised at what I see. “This is registered to SOCA, isn’t it? If poor PC Plod dares to look it up he’ll see that it’s none of his business and that there’s nothing he can do about the menace to society behind the wheel… I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Got it in one,” Sam grins, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Just call it a perk of the job. Actually… Another, I suppose you could call it, perk is the ability to access information at the drop of a hat. Because I finished early and had time to kill before coming to pick you up, I decided to go through Phil’s phone records and found something interesting.”

“Interesting as in useful, I hope?” Don’t tell me, let me guess. I get stuck on a treadmill with an audience of men gawking at my bruises while Sam, from the comfort of his office, comes up with something of actual use.

“Actually, yes. Quite useful,” Sam replies, changing lanes without indicating and taking a turn off leading in the opposite direction to his apartment. “Over the past four months, interspersed with his many, many – seriously, Chris, how often did he feel the urge to check in with you? – calls to your mobile and office, another number popped up with obvious regularity. Looking into it, I discovered that the number belonged to a Mark Jenkinson. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Thinking about it I feel as though I should recognise the name but can’t place it. “Maybe?” I murmur. “I think I’ve heard the name but… Sorry. It may come to me later but at the moment I’m coming up blank. Oh… And as for Phil’s favourite hobby of phoning me up all the time, just… Don’t go there. One day a colleague answered my mobile because I was away from the desk and it took days to convince him I wasn’t having a clandestine affair in a grotty motel room somewhere.”

“There’s probably a lot I could say to that but I’ll just go with… no comment,” Sam responds, his expression closing briefly over. “Back to Mark Jenkinson though, he’s a British citizen currently working in San Diego at none other than Body Works, your gym. Before leaving for the States, however, he worked for, wait for it…”

“Hard Body,” I finish, groaning. “Let me guess. Mark Jenkinson rocked up at Body Works around the time Phil decided muscles were the way to my heart and that’s where he was getting the damn steroids from.”

“Most likely. Jenkinson doesn’t have a record, but his older brother, Patrick, does and it’s for dealing. So… You know as well as I do the predilection petty criminals have for keeping it in the family.”

“Not to mention he would have been able to put Phil in contact with whoever took over his business at Hard Body.”

“Uh-huh. I tried contacting him but the manager at Body Works said that he’s gone camping for a few days and has most likely gone somewhere out of phone range. He should be back Tuesday though, so if you haven’t come up with anything by then he’ll probably be our best bet.”

“So long as we’re able to find Phil one way or another,” I murmur, flashing a faint smile at Sam. “Hey, good work though. And… Come to think of it, now that you’ve mentioned Jenkinson being at Body Works, I… do… remember him. Mean looking bastard with pretty serious muscles. I never spoke to him though. But… Phil… Yeah. I saw him speak to Jenkinson a couple of times.” 

Nodding, Sam once again chooses against bothering with the indicator and, crossing two lanes of traffic, pulls into a supermarket car park. “It’s all coming together, Chris, you’ll see,” he states, neatly slotting the car into a parking space and killing the engine. “Now… I kind of forgot to mention this to you sooner,” he continues, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning to face me, “but I’m having a few friends around for dinner tonight and…”

“And you want me out of your hair?” I offer, cutting him off and glancing pointedly around the parking lot. “I don’t have a problem with making myself scarce, and will even pack up my crap and book into a motel if it would help, but… Abandoning me at a Tesco’s? Seriously? I know I’m a nuisance, but leaving me here? Come on! That’s a bit uncalled for, surely.”

“Huh? What?” Sam laughs and rolls his eyes. “Daft fool,” he snickers affectionately. “What I’d been going to say before you interrupted was that I need to pick up a few things… Quite a few things actually, and as you’re looking just that little bit knackered after your adventures at the gym, I’ll try not to take too long if you want to stay in the car.”

“Oh…” That’s a relief, then. “Am I invited to said dinner party?” I query hesitantly, bracing myself for an answer in the negative. I’ll understand if Sam wants his apartment to himself but, given the late notice, I’ll still be a little hurt at the way he’s gone about it. Slipping his mind is one thing, but hitting me with it late afternoon in a parking lot? Just… Where am I going to go? Sure, I can book myself into a motel and will do so willingly – if not overly happily – if that’s what Sam wants, but… I just wish I’d had some warning that this was coming, that’s all.

“Unless you want to stay in your room, sulking like a child for the entire evening,” Sam replies, still laughing, “then of course you’re invited. As the only guests are going to be Backup, Spencer and possibly Richards, they’ll probably wonder what I’ve done with you if you’re not there. I really am sorry that I didn’t mention it earlier but we have these… get togethers… quite regularly and it just happens that tonight is my turn. They’re nothing fancy or anything like that. In fact, given the nice weather I was thinking of just doing a barbeque on the balcony.”

Brightening, I beam at Sam and undo my seatbelt. “Sounds great,” I reply happily as, my silly attack of the doubts having been put firmly back in their place, I find myself looking forward to the evening. People that I know, company that I like – it sounds quite wonderful, really. “And, despite the damage my crappy and knackered looking appearance trailing behind you will do to your suave and sophisticated reputation, I need deodorant so I’m going to have to come in to the supermarket with you.”

“Deodorant?” Sam echoes, looking me up and down and almost imperceptibly wrinkling his nose.

“Mmm… I discovered this morning that mine was empty and had to use yours instead. I’d ask if you recognised the scent…” Pausing, I lift my arm and half lean towards Sam before hurriedly dropping it back down and smirking. “Only I’m not sure if it would have survived half an hour on the treadmill… If you’re fine with me using it though, then I’d be happy to…”

“Enough!” Feigning a truly award winning sigh, Sam opens the car door and climbs out. “Come on then,” he adds with a smile, leaning back in through the door. “If you behave yourself I may even allow some beer to land in the trolley…”

~*~ 

Sensing someone step out onto the balcony behind me, I turn around in time to watch Backup – with all the elegance and grace of a beached whale… not, however, that I’m going to mention this to her – flop down into one of the wicker chairs and smile a greeting. “What? You decided against joining the others in heading down to the basement to drool over the Aston?” I query with a laugh. “Unless my memory serves me incorrectly, there was once a time when you would have elbowed all the boys out of the way when a hot car was concerned.”

Failing miserably in her attempt to wither me with a sour look, Backup slips her – sensibly heeled – shoes off her feet and, laughing, gestures along the length of her body. “Have you had a look at me recently, Chris? Even if Sam allowed me to touch the damn thing I wouldn’t be able to fit behind the wheel and, just as I suspect you’re feeling the same way as well, what’s the point in admiring it if you can’t drive it?” Pausing, she looks up at me and winks. “Besides, if I wanted to hear three idiots blithering on about an inanimate object on four wheels I’d watch Top Gear.”

“When you put it that way…” Noticing that she doesn’t have a drink and feeling as though I should fulfil host duties for Sam while he’s showing the Aston off to Spencer and Richards, I pick up my empty Bud bottle from the barbeque and move towards the sliding glass door. “I’m just getting another beer. Can I get you anything?”

“I’d kill for another water,” Backup replies, glumly rubbing her stomach. “Did you see the bottle of red Richards brought? Oh…” Suddenly remembering just who it is she’s talking to, she laughs again and shakes her head. “Sorry. Even if you did notice the label it wouldn’t have meant anything to you. Just… Take my word for it that it’s a good one and one that I would have absolutely loved to have had a glass of.”

“If you say so,” I retort airily, my lack of wine appreciation being well known amongst my friends and one that I’ve copped more than my fair share of teasing over throughout the years. “I’ll be back with your water in a moment,” I add, walking through the apartment to the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of Evian for Backup and another bottle of Bud for myself, I return to the balcony and present the water to her with a sweeping bow. “Madam…”

Taking the Evian, Backup toasts me with it and smiles warmly. “Go on, admit it,” she murmurs cryptically. “There’s just no two ways about it, you… You just have to.”

“I just have to admit… what… exactly?” Twisting the cap off my beer, I take a seat on the wicker chair alongside Backup’s and stretch my legs out in front of me.

“That you belong here,” Backup states matter-of-factly, reaching across the small, glass topped table that separates us and giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You belong here, Chris, and you know it.”

Aware that I’m teetering on the precipice of being on the receiving end of a well-meaning lecture but not knowing how to successfully deflect it without appearing rude, I shrug and decide to delay the inevitable by playing dumb. “Belong where, Sam’s balcony? Come on, Backup. The view’s great and all that, but…”

“I can see straight through you, you know,” Backup interrupts, flicking her finger against my arm, I think, by way of warning. “In fact, you know what I’m talking about as clearly as I do. You belong here, in London, with people who know you well enough to… figuratively… slap you across the face when you need it.”

Here we go. I should have known, given the way she’s been sneaking glances at me all evening, that I wasn’t going to make it through the night unscathed.

I’m not going to get up and walk away even though I know she’s on her soapbox now and isn’t going to let up until she hears whatever it is she thinks she wants to hear from me, but… If Sam – or, hey, even Spencer or Richards for that matter, as when you’re desperate you’ll take whatever you can get – were to suddenly return to the apartment and walk out onto the balcony however I think I’d jump up and hug him as thanks for providing an incredibly welcome distraction.

Sighing, I shift my arm away from Backup’s finger as she gives me another, harder this time, flick and take a long swallow of beer. “I have no right,” I mumble dispiritedly, refusing to meet her gaze and not caring that she probably won’t know what I’m talking about. 

“What do you mean you have no…” Trailing off, Backup retracts her hand and settles herself more comfortably in her chair. “Sam seems happy, don’t you think?” she continues, changing tack and aiming straight for my weak spot. “To be honest I don’t think I’ve seen him this content since…”

“Don’t…” Brilliant. I already sound pathetic and she hasn’t even really started yet. The rest of this – lecture – conversation should be a real treat. She means well, I know that, but at the risk of sounding like a petulant child, why can’t I simply be left alone in my own little word of denial? I may not be overly happy there but at least I’m used to it. “Backup, please…” 

“I love you, Chris, but you’re a stubborn, pig-headed fool,” Backup replies with a fond chuckle as, feeling as though I have to do something with my hands, I start to aimlessly scratch at the paper label on my beer bottle. “I know what you’re thinking and I know you don’t want to be talking about any of this, but… That’s just tough. Be it irrational or nothing to do with me or whatever, I have this fear that it’s all going to get too much for you and you’re just going to hop on a plane without saying goodbye again and… even if you sit there glowering at me or trying to pretend you’re not listening to a word out of my mouth, I… I’m not going to give up on this opportunity to have my say…”

Oh yeah. Here we go indeed.

But, you know what? Just… Whatever. If getting it out of her system will allow Backup to feel as though she’s achieved something then it would just be selfish of me to deny her the chance. Maybe I’m simply feeling masochistic and maybe I’ll well and truly regret my magnanimous decision to let her go for it, but… So be it. She deserves the opportunity and, who knows, maybe I deserve to listen.

“Go for it,” I murmur at last as I lift my head and fix Backup with what I hope passes for an open, determined look. “Anything you want to tell me... I’m listening.”

“Just like that, you’re giving in?” Backup queries dubiously, looking surprised. “Should I be asking how many beers you’ve had to drink?”

“This is only my second and, seriously, I want you to go for it,” I reply, placing my beer on the table so that she can see it’s still three-quarters full. “Oh, and it’s not giving in at all, more… It’s more that I simply don’t have it in me to argue. So… Make the most of it. I’m here and I promise you now that I’ll listen to everything you have to say.”

Although she hardly looks sold on my apparent willingness to go along with her lecture, Backup nods and smiles sadly. “You’ll probably think this is stupid,” she begins, “but when you left, even though we knew where you were, we actually mourned you. You slammed the door so tightly shut on the life you’d had in London that to those of us still here, and still picking up the pieces, it was almost as though you were dead. Hell, given the lack of contact or even acknowledgement that we still existed, you may as well have been.”

Fuck. I fully expected a degree of uneasiness to wash over me listening to Backup… vent… but, seriously, if she manages to make me feel lower than I already do I may very well throw myself off the balcony. “I…” What can I say? I’m sorry. Of course I am. But sorry so often sounds like a token gesture, one that’s being offered solely because it’s expected. And, dare I say, easy. Whether you actually are really sorry or not, the two words are so easily slipped off the tongue and, because of that, so easily brushed off as a formulaic response.

So instead I’ll hang my head and say nothing.

“I know you’re sorry,” Backup continues softly, taking pity on me. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to feel bad or hear you say what I already know, I told you because… it’s how it was. You were a much loved and integral part of our lives and then, just like that, you were gone. And, yes, it hurt. But… I don’t blame you and I don’t want to waste my breath going over the past. You know what happened and you know, regardless of how hindsight may possibly tell you differently, you acted how you best saw fit. Just as I know what happened and Sam knows what happened. We were all there and even if I did want to hand out blame I know we’d all have to share equal parts of it. Too blinkered… In too much pain… Too focussed on putting it aside… Too damn self-absorbed… Just… Who cares? What’s done is done. You retreated into your shell, Sam lashed out, I thought if I ignored it all that it would simply go away… Again though, who cares? The past is just that, past. It’s the future I’m more interested in.”

“But…” Everyone may have had a part to play in the outcome, but I’m still the one who picked up his toys and bolted from the sandpit, leaving, so I know now, all the other kids to feel as though he was dead. “Surely…”

“Surely nothing,” Backup states adamantly, cutting me off. “I think I know you pretty well and what I think is that… you… think you’re solely behind this entire state of affairs and that there’s nothing you can do about it. You also, I suspect, having had no real practice in digging yourself out of a hole of your own making, don't know how to.”

Okay. Now she’s really caught my attention. Knowing that I blame myself and have no idea how to even begin to rectify the mess is one thing, but what’s this about not having any practice? That I don’t understand. “Excuse me? I don’t really understand…”

“It’s just something I read somewhere once and couldn’t help but relate in some ways to you,” Backup explains, once again leaning across the table and giving my forearm a quick, reassuring squeeze. Well, that’s how I’m choosing to translate her touch anyway because it’s preferable to the other option of wanting to be able to clamp her hand around me if I give any indication of making a run for it. “You might think it’s rubbish and, if so, I want you to tell me and I’ll shut up about it. It’s not something I studied any further and I may well be totally off the mark but, I don’t know, there may possibly be something to it…” Pausing, she takes a deep breath and flashes me a nervous smile before finally coming out with it.

“You’d identify with the term military brat, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yeah. If you’re brought up in that lifestyle you know that you’re a military brat as clearly and as unquestionably as you know who your parents are. It really is just how it is. But… What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’ll see… Hopefully,” Backup replies, not answering my question at all. “Now, how many times did you move while growing up?”

“A lot,” I offer lamely, my levels of curiosity now being so great that I wish she’s just get to the point already. “I remember we moved four times when I was ten and that the longest we ever spent at one base was just over a year. As to how many times exactly though? I honestly wouldn’t know. Moving was just one of those facts of life that I accepted as perfectly normal.”

“I’ll understand if you don’t want to answer this, but…” Backup hesitates for a moment before nodding to herself and pushing on. “You joined CI5 and moved over to London not that long after… uh… the wedding, didn’t you?”

Just… where on earth is she going with this? “Three weeks after, actually,” I murmur, shrugging away my discomfort at being reminded of the worst day of my life. “Malone’s offer had come through the month before and… after the funerals were out of the way I simply decided to take him up on it, effective immediately. I… I just needed a change…”

“And… All your friends from that time and fellow SEALS, did you keep in contact with them when you got here?”

I wish I knew where she was going with this, I really do. Seriously. Just… What a strange, strange question. “Er… No. Not really. They... They were a part of my old life, they had their own lives that I was no longer a part of, and I was needing to start afresh.”

Backup nods sagely, as though I’ve just proven an important point in her theory. “Do you keep in contact with any of the friends from your past? You know, through email or Facebook? Given how many places you’ve lived and how many people you would have met, your friend list would have to be off the chart.”

“I view Facebook as the Devil’s handiwork,” I mumble, picking up my beer and once again beginning to scratch aimlessly at the paper label. “So… The answer is no. I’d be hard pushed to remember the names of most of the kids I went to school with and… And maybe this will earn me another black mark in your book, but I’ve never felt any great desire to keep in contact with these people. The time we spent together is history and I have no need to either relive it or to take a stroll down memory lane.”

“This isn’t about black marks and I’m not keeping any sort of score,” Backup replies softly, resting her head back on the chair and gazing up at the dark sky. “You have more practice, Chris, of starting afresh than anyone else I know. You’ve moved countless times, been the new boy at more schools than you probably care to remember, had to make friends with a never ending stream of people, adapted to many different homes and locations, changed jobs and the list, I’m sure, goes on.”

“Mmm… That sounds about right, but… So what?” It’s just how my life’s been. “I never sat around in my room moping or wishing my father could just settle in one place. Some times I even looked forward to moving so, please, if you’re feeling sorry for me… Don’t…”

Turning her head, Backup glances across at me as a fleeting triumphant smile crosses her face. “I don’t feel sorry for you and, believe it or not, you just strayed on to the point I’m taking my time, and probably making a hash of, getting to.”

“I… did?” God knows, especially as I still have no idea where she’s going with any of this, I didn’t do it intentionally. In fact, if I even made a point I’m not aware of it.

“Uh-huh… Your comment about some times looking forward to moving,” Backup murmurs. “Because you were so used to it, you learnt to view moving as a way to, in a sense, clean house. Any problems you may have encountered with other children would have just disappeared the moment you left the base. Run into a hassle at school or fall out of favour with a teacher? Instead of having to deal with the problem you knew you could simply ignore it because it was unlikely you’d be there for much longer anyway. I’m not saying you did this out of… cowardice… or didn’t know how to stand up for yourself or even did it consciously, more that… that was simply what you knew. Moving taught you that you could start again and that constantly moving forward was the way to go. According to the report I read, it’s quite a common trait amongst former military brats…”

“I… I’ve never thought about it that way before,” I reply, taking a suddenly much needed mouthful of beer as I try to get my head fully around what Backup is trying to get through to me. “Moving was just what we did. If I happened to leave a… problem… behind then that was just… part and parcel with the move. As you’ve put me on the sport here, I may, now that I’m thinking about it, have taken the whole clean slate thing for granted, but… at the same time I was never really aware of it. Again… It was just the only life I knew so I… I went along with it.”

“Of course you did,” Backup smiles, slipping her feet back into her shoes and slowly standing up. “And because it’s what you were use to and had grown up taking for granted, it’s something you still… revert to. I doubt you do it consciously, that it’s more instinctual than anything else, but instead of staying put and working your way through the problem you just… move on. It’s always worked in the past, you’ve got starting from scratch down pat and because of this it all just makes perfect sense to you.”

Unable to deny the surprising logic in what Backup is saying, I sigh and look down at my knees. “Having it laid out like this,” I whisper, “it sounds like running away, that I don’t know how to cope with... problems in my life and… and you’re probably right. I move and I start again because, knowing that it works, I… I find it easy. I don’t hesitate or think about it in any great detail because it’s always worked for me and, ironically, I don’t… have… to think about it. Dealing with the claustrophobic concern and attention after the wedding was too much, so I turned my back on everyone and everything and moved over here…”

“And then when things went pear shaped over here and Sam decided for his own reasons to deliver the final blow, you packed up and moved on again,” Backup finishes, walking over and slowly crouching down next to me. “I know and that, ultimately, is what I’m trying to get at with all of this. Your actions, Chris, are understandable and I’m just wanting you to be able to see this. I’m not wanting to come across as trying to lecture you or to appear as… uh… an even larger version of Oprah, and I really am going to stop harping on about it in a moment, but… Do you see what I’m trying to get through to you? You’re a creature of habit who, instead of just acting instinctively, needs to take the time to think about what it is you really want.”

“As with everything, that’ll be easier said than done,” I murmur, returning my beer to the table and leaning forward to place my hand lightly on Backup’s shoulder. “But… Yeah. Okay. Believe it or not I think I understand what you’re… uh… getting at. Instead of closing the door on the past and simply moving on because… uh… it’s what I do, I… I should think about whether it’s really what I want or whether it’s worth hanging around and… fighting.”

Beaming, Backup stands up and ruffles my hair. “If I had one of James’ gold stars with me I’d stick it on your t-shirt for being so quick on the uptake,” she responds. “And, hey, everything that’s worth fighting for is easier said than done, it’s just one of those inescapable facts of life. At the end of the day though it’s usually worth it.”

“Not, as you’ve just so kindly explained to me, that I’ve had any practice at it,” I reply, getting to my feet and walking across the balcony to look down on the Thames. “It makes sense though… All of it. Now I suppose it’s just up to me to make what I will of it.”

“And that’s all I ever wanted to achieve by getting this off my chest,” Backup states, joining me and, not being tall – or currently limber – enough to reach my shoulders, sliding her arm around my waist. “This wasn’t about lecturing you or venting five years worth of frustrations which, at the end of the day, had nothing to do with me anyway, it was simply about… offering you a different perspective on things and, hopefully, giving you something to think about.. Everything else is simply up to you and you alone. No one else’s opinions matter. If I had a vote to cast it would be for you to return to London because, and don’t go getting a big head on me here, I consider you a close friend and like having you around. I don’t have a vote, however, as whatever decision you make has to be what… you… want to do, whatever that may be and wherever it may lead you.”

“Inward thinking… Yay. Something to look forward to then,” I retort, softening my somewhat dry response with a smile. “Thank you, Backup, though… Seriously. Instead of contemplating the future I’ve been dwelling on the past, what I did, why I did it, whether I could have reacted differently and, maybe it’s stupid, but knowing I did what I did almost instinctively, it… I don’t know, it just helps somehow. It also gives me a… trait… I can focus my attention on trying to rectify. I’m not saying I know where… or even how… to start, but…”

“It’s a start nonetheless,” Backup adds, returning my smile and, tightening her arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Again, that’s all I wanted to get through to you. Now… At the risk of topping your evening off with a nice dose of too much information, pregnancy is a bitch on your bladder and I really need to leave you in order to go to the bathroom before something unpleasant happens that will see Sam never inviting me to his place again… Before I go though I just have one… no… two last things to say to you.”

“Not wanting to hold you up and being held responsible for Sam banning you from the premises, hit me with it,” I reply, placing my arm around Backup’s shoulders and returning our side-by-side embrace.

Nodding, Backup looks up into my eyes, her gaze challenging me to glance away. “Promise me you’ll think… or at the very least try to place in context… everything I’ve said…”

“I promise,” I reply, meeting her gaze and feeling slightly pleased that it was an easy answer to give. The specifics of what the… thinking about… will actually entail will be harder but, channelling Scarlet O’Hara, I’ll think about that another day. 

“Good.” Removing her arm from around my waist, Backup reaches out and cups my right cheek in the palm of my hand. “Now also promise me that you won’t leave this time without first saying goodbye. Go back to the States if that’s what you decide you truly want. Hell, go to New Zealand and buy a sheep farm if that’s what you decide currently floats your boat. Just… Promise you won’t leave without taking the time to say goodbye.”

Bending slightly to lean into Backup’s touch, I nod and hold up my right hand. Woo-hoo. Easy to answer and easy to do. As promises go, I like this one. “Scout’s honour. You have my word that when I leave I won’t be the insensitive bastard of old and will definitely say goodbye,” I state, punctuating my response with a fleeting kiss to the tip of Backup’s nose.

“I can’t ask for more than that,” Backup smiles, trailing her hand down my cheek as she backs away and turns towards the door. “Now… I hate to love and leave you, but I really, really have to go,” she adds, giving me a small wave over her shoulder as she disappears into the apartment.

Alone – not, I can’t help but feel, that this is a particularly good thing – with my thoughts, I return to my chair and sink down into it. While it’s both easy to see the… viability… of everything Backup just told me and easy to nod on cue and verbally agree with her, what isn’t going to be so easy is knowing what to do with the information. Yes, I can see how I use starting afresh as a convenient ‘get out of jail free’ card because it’s something I learned to adapt to, not to mention benefit from, in my childhood. I’m, as Backup mentioned, a creature of habit. Why stay around after the wedding to suffer all the well meaning attention that was setting my teeth on permanent edge when I could move country and put it all behind me? Why put in the effort to save a relationship and job that meant everything to me when, out of sorts and licking both my physical and psychological wounds, I could pack my bags and piss off? After all, when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

So, yes. Absolutely. It makes sense. I’m even quite pleased to have the, for the want of a better description, military brat phenomenon, brought to my attention. I’d never consciously thought of myself… running away… simply out of habit before, but now that I’ve had the thought presented to me I’m pleased to have a believable and logical explanation for it. But… Ultimately, what am I going to do with this knowledge? Sure I can tell myself that knowing why I do what I’m prone to doing is a start in the right direction because I’ll try harder to fight my instincts and put more thought into the bigger picture. But, will I? If I’m so entrenched in the habit of choosing to leave instead of putting up a fight for what I may very well deep down want, what’s to say I’ll be able to do anything to change? Knowing what I think I want and knowing how to best go about achieving it are, let’s face it, two different things entirely.

I’d love to be able to say Backup’s provided me with a wonderful epiphany but, while I’m grateful for the head’s up in relation to how I can better justify my past actions, I don’t know how exactly to put it into action. When I decide something that will have a big impact on my life on the spur-of-the-amount it’s always to head for pastures greener, to put the past behind me, and when I decide I should actually think about matters in detail it… quickly gets too much for me and, giving up, I still retreat to the tried and true plan of starting again. 

It’s all just too hard. Seriously. Besides, right now I’ve got other things to think about. Take Phil for example. Is our plan of going through the gym to find him the right one? What if we’re wasting our time and something happens to him that we could have stopped if we’d worked a different angle and found him quicker. I can’t think of another angle to try, well, not one that doesn’t involve the police, but… in terms of paranoid doubt that doesn’t have to matter. Then there’s what happens when – or if, whatever – we find him. How am I going to react? It’s one thing being magnanimous and wanting to help him when he’s nowhere near me, but what about when he’s standing in front me? I make a point of not thinking – nothing new there then – about what he did to me, but will that change when I see him again? It’s honestly not a question I know the answer to.

So… Something else not to think about.

I could then, push all the hard or unpleasant thoughts from my mind and think instead of the fantastic time I’ve been having this evening. Familiar, welcoming company, good food, lots of laughter and a sense of belonging that, to hell with it, I don’t want to think about in any detail either.

Oh yeah. All too hard indeed.

Biting back a sigh, I stretch my legs out and, suddenly feeling bone weary, close my eyes. Given my, albeit it forced, inactivity of the last week, I’ve done quite a lot today and I’m now feeling it. Although I hadn’t expected to, I slip into a surprisingly deep sleep and the next thing I’m aware of is a hand none-too-gently prodding my shoulder. 

“Huh… What?” I grunt as, startled – where am I, who’s touching me? – my eyes fly open.

“I actually contemplated leaving you out here,” Sam announces quite cheerfully as he holds his hand out and waits for me to take it. “But then I couldn’t work out whether the weather presenter on the radio this morning had muttered something about possible light showers or not and decided I couldn’t risk it.” Pausing, he smiles happily and, unless my eyes are deceiving me, sways ever so slightly on his feet. “Not, and I have to be perfectly honest here, that the thought of you being woken up by rain didn’t… amuse… somewhat, but then I thought of you dripping all over the polished floorboards and simply couldn’t do it.”

“You’re all heart,” I grumble as, taking Sam’s proffered hand, I allow him to haul me to my feet. His balance being a little worse for wear courtesy of all the wine he’s drank this evening, he stumbles backwards as I stand and, still being half asleep and not expecting it, I crash into him. Sheer luck more than anything else keeps us both from hitting the ground and the look of inebriated bemusement on Sam’s face as he straightens himself up is so great that I can’t help but laugh.

Scowling, Sam backs away and makes a performance out of straightening his shirt. “It’s not funny,” he complains. “Maybe I should have just left you out here anyway, rain or no rain.”

“And risk the well being of your polished floorboards? I don’t think so,” I reply with a grin as I step around Sam and peer through the open glass door into the living area. “Where are the others? Don’t tell me I slept through their departure…”

“Uh-huh,” Sam confirms, walking past me and into the apartment. “Spencer wanted to draw a Hitler moustache on you before taking a photo to cement the moment in history,” he adds over his shoulder as I follow him inside and slide the door closed behind me, “but sadly Backup wouldn’t let him. I don’t know why. It would have been hilarious.”

“Backup likes me, that’s why,” I retort, locking the door. “That, and the fact that unlike the rest of you idiots she hasn’t been guzzling wine all night… I’ll have to remember to thank her for saving me the next time I see her.”

Apparently not believing I posses the required skills to successfully lock a sliding door, Sam walks over and carefully checks that I’ve done it correctly. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he mutters. “Wine is…”

“Yeah, yeah. The nectar of the Gods and all that,” I interrupt, giving Sam’s shoulder a small, borderline condescending pat. “I may be too stupid to be trusted with a simple door lock, but I do remember… verbatim, if you must know… your opinions on wine.”

“Remembering is one thing, I just wish you’d actually believe them as, when it comes to wine being far superior to common old beer, I am after all right,” Sam murmurs with a shrug as he begins to walk towards the bedroom. “Now… I said your farewells for you and, on your behalf, reiterated your promise to Backup to not skip town. I also cleaned the dining table, living room and most of the kitchen. Stacking the dishwasher, however, is your job. I thought really it was only fair.”

“Again, you’re all heart,” I reply facetiously as I dutifully head in the direction of the kitchen. “Dishwasher stacking. How fabulous. The perfect end, really, to a perfect evening.”

“Richards actually suggested I leave all the cleaning up to you,” Sam states, coming to a stop in the doorway and looking over at me with a mildly – comedic – horrified look on his face. “Can you believe it? Just… What a… scary, scary… thought.”

The wine snob and the slob. The ease in which we fall into our comfortable, well worn predilections is almost reassuring.

Snickering, I make shooing gestures at Sam and point into the bedroom. “You’re right. The rodent infestation that would have occurred after I’d left the leftovers out on the table and the dirty dishes in the sink for a week would have made your fear of water on the floorboards seem like… well… nothing,” I reply with a sweet, innocent smile. “Now, shoo! Go to bed. I know you’ll struggle with the concept, but I’ve got the task of placing stuff in the dishwasher covered.”

“Maybe…” His expression changing to what looks to be one of confused concern, Sam hesitates over walking in the bedroom and continues staring at me. “Maybe I’ll just do it myself.”

“Bed! Now!” I command, laughing at how not even being nicely drunk stops Sam’s inner neat-freak in its tracks. “Seriously, Sam, I’m fine with stacking the dishwasher. Just… Go to bed before your head explodes.”

Nodding slowly, Sam gives a resigned sigh and steps through the door into the bedroom. “I’ll leave a lamp on for you,” he calls out as I walk into the kitchen and open the dishwasher.

Sam’s simple statement causes a tremor of warmth to work it’s way through my body and I mentally offer my thanks to any deity who may be listening for having that particular question answered before it had even passed through my mind. He may still be only wanting to share his bed with me because it’s easier than being woken by the muffled sounds of a nightmare coming from another room. Tonight it may simply be the alcohol talking, but I don’t care. Going to sleep knowing that Sam’s by my side has always been special to me and regardless of not knowing what to truly make of it it’s not something I’m strong enough to say no to.

The dishes already having been pre-rinsed – clearly the neat-freak that sits on his shoulder and whispers in his ear insisted I couldn’t be totally trusted to get the task right – it doesn’t take long to stack the dishwasher and only ten or so minutes have passed before I’m walking into the second bedroom to change into my sleepwear. As is most very definitely my wont, I keep my mind deliberately blank as I pull on my pyjamas and, turning all the lights off as I go, silently make my across to Sam’s bedroom. 

Finding him already asleep, I switch the lamp off and climb carefully into bed. I’ve barely settled myself on my right side under the summer-weight duvet when an arm slides around my waist and I’m pulled back against a warm body. Breathing suddenly feeling as though it’s become optional, I hold my breath and wait to see what Sam’s next move may be. When it becomes apparent that he’s still asleep and not even aware of the position he’s rolled into, I release a shaky breath and – seizing the moment – push back against him. Comfortable, I close my eyes as what can only be a particularly telling thought flashes into my mind.

What I want?

Right now what I want is a no brainer.

~*~

As I’d hoped, the man who’d left Hard Body at the same time as me yesterday and conveniently witnessed Sam’s display of arrogance over the roof of the Aston Martin is back at the gym this morning and, clearly having made an impression on him, he’s watching me like a hawk as I fake enthusiasm for walking on the spot on the monotonous treadmill. Obviously being a popular guy – or, alternatively, a good source of gossip – four men mill around him and it just has to be said that not one of them would ever make a good spy because the surreptitious glances they keep giving me are actually far from being surreptitious. In fact, what with the obvious gawking and whispering I’m beginning to feel like a prize exhibition in a zoo or something.

Which, of course, once again means my bruising being on display for all to see is working a treat.

Greg, when he passed by to express effusive delight at seeing me again, looked as though he was using every last iota of willpower he possessed to stop himself from flinging me over his shoulder and carting me off kicking and screaming to see a counsellor. Thinking he’d seen it all yesterday, I was actually a little perturbed by his reaction until I noticed I’d foolishly forgotten my wrist bands and that he could see the fading red marks circling my wrists. Cursing my stupidity but having to play along, I blushed on cue and babbled something truly ridiculous about much preferring it when Stuart used the padded cuffs. This I’m sure merely increased Greg’s levels of doubt about my relationship – if not mental state – and when he finally left me he was looking decidedly pensive.

The bruises and my downtrodden act having worked a sad and sorry charm, I suspect it would be common knowledge around Hard Body by now that my lover is an asshole who beats me, yet not only do I still love him I also want to change my body to please him. It’s not a role I’m comfortable playing but, on the other hand, it’s far preferable to them knowing the truth. Too busy not thinking about other things, I don’t dwell on what Phil put me through and hope that this particular state of… delusion… carries on long into the future. I don’t, not that this makes me anything special or unique, like being a victim and it annoys my sense… of self… being considered one.

Glancing at my watch, I see that I’ve been pounding away on this stupid thing for fifteen minutes already and that Sam should be putting in an appearance to – really hammer home our dysfunctional relationship for all to see – rescue me any time soon.

Sam.

Ah, Sam. My favourite source of confusion and, to hell with it, yes, longing. As much as I’d like to be able to work out just what it is I want, I think I’d actually like to know what’s going through Sam’s mind more. I just don’t understand how nothing seems to be fazing him at the moment. I’ve all but taken over his life yet, completely without comment, he’s taking it all in his stride. If I’m annoying him he’s doing a good job of hiding it. Conversely, if he’s experiencing any of the inner turmoil – which I’ll own up to even if I won’t actually actively do anything about – that I am in respect to how comfortable we are with each other and how it could possibly lead to something, then, well, he’s doing a damn good job of hiding that as well.

But, really, who am I to pass judgement on that sort of behaviour?

Say something to Sam about how much everything he’s doing for me means or how much I’m revelling in being in his company? Confess to daring to want more because, having been reminded of how good what we had was, I’m not wanting to give it up again?

Uh-huh. And air traffic controllers are clearing pigs for take off at Heathrow.

And… Speak of the devil.

Despite not having a direct line of sight to the door I know Sam’s just walked in the equipment room by the look of anticipation on the faces of the five men failing in their attempt to hide their salacious interest in me. One in particular, a short man wearing seriously ill-advised Lycra shorts, almost looks as though he wants to start rubbing his hands together gleefully. God knows I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, but I honestly don’t ever recall having encountered someone so turned on by the sordid misfortune of another before. Slimy git. Not caring if he notices or not, I shoot him a sour look before glancing in the direction of the door and coming to a sudden, rubbery legged halt on the treadmill. 

Just… Shit.

It only takes one look at the menacing picture Sam paints to make me feel on edge. Not even knowing it’s all an act can lessen the impact of the all black clothing and look of outright contempt on his face. To say he’s bristling with bad temper and spoiling for a fight is an understatement of huge proportions and I brace myself for the coming impact.

“You were supposed to meet me outside five minutes a ago,” he snarls, grabbing my wrist and hauling me off the treadmill with such force that I’m unable to keep my balance and end up falling to my knees on the floor. “What’s the point of wearing a fucking watch if you’re too stupid to actually take any notice of the time?” he continues loudly enough for everyone to hear him clearly as, shaking my arm, he pulls me to my feet and shoves me towards the door.

“I…” Oh God… Although it wouldn’t have been intentional and he’d be horrified if he knew, Sam’s violent bully routine has actually hurt me and it’s all I can do to stop gasping out in pain. “I…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Sam snaps, giving me another shove in the back that almost sees me falling in to the arms of a man walking into the room. “You’re just fucking useless, you really are.” Noticing the look of concern on the man’s face as he holds his hands out to steady me, Sam grabs a hold of my shoulder and all but marches me through the door. “What are you fucking looking at, huh? It’s his own fucking fault.”

“I… I’m fine,” I wheeze, dredging up a placating smile to flash at the man as, risking a glance over my shoulder I notice the men staring after us with open-mouthed awe. “S-seriously… He’s right. It’s my fault. I…”

“Just shut up and move,” Sam interrupts coldly, pausing to sneer at the man before propelling me down the corridor towards the locker room. “It’s none of your fucking business anyway.”

“Arsehole,” the man mutters under his breath, causing Sam to release my shoulder, spin on his heels, and stalk back up to him.

Knowing that it wouldn’t be part of my character to either intervene or stand and gawk, I walk into the room and, my legs still feeling dithery from the raw power of Sam’s display of contemptuous arrogance, wobble over to my allocated locker. Although I’d hoped, not knowing how much more abuse my battered body is up for if Sam feels compelled to continue performing, to have the room to myself, Bazza – the peroxide aerobics machine – is sitting on the bench tying up the laces of his silver Nike’s and, looking up with obvious interest, he nods a greeting at me.

“You’re the latest American to join our little establishment, aren’t you?” he queries in a grating, high-pitched voice that suits his look – today his leg warmers and too-tiny shorts are a gloriously bright hot pink – to perfection. “Name’s Barry,” he adds in a coquettish manner that sets my teeth on edge as he springs to his feet and extends his right hand.

“Chris,” I murmur as, effectively saving me from having to shake his hand, Sam stomps through the door and gives us both an evil look. His interested in me deserting him the second he lays eyes on Sam, Barry’s expression changes to one of obvious lust at first sight and, all but brushing me aside, he sidles up to him with a blinding smile.

“Name’s…”

“Don’t care,” Sam states, abruptly cutting Barry off as, narrowing his eyes, he focuses his attention solely on me. “What? You’re still not fucking ready?”

“I…” Mentally complimenting Sam on his truly Oscar worthy performance while simultaneously wishing he’d back off a little just to give me space to catch my breath, I stare at him wide-eyed and take a nervous backwards step towards my locker. “I… I’ll just be a minute.”

“You’d better be,” Sam snaps, tapping his finger pointedly onto his watch before whirling around and favouring Barry with a look worthy of turning the Thames into an instant glacier. “What? Do I look like I’m fucking interested?”

“But…”

“Go. Away.”

Something in the tone of Sam’s voice permeating through the lust-fuelled fog filling Barry’s head, he nods dazedly, shoots me – the apparent ‘competition’ – a foul look and stalks out of the locker room. My relief at his departure is sadly short lived though as he’s barely through the door before a muscle-bound man-mountain lumbers into the room and heads for his locker. Unlike Barry he shows absolutely no interest whatsoever in our presence and simply goes about his business as though we weren’t even in the room with him. Slightly fascinated by both his brawn and vacant – the lights may be on but there’s no one home, that’s for sure – expression as he fumbles over unlocking his locker I stare at the man and idly wonder just how many bottles of fake tan he goes through a month. Browny-orange has nothing on the colour of his skin. I also haven’t seen muscles quite like his anywhere other than on the advertising posters for protein powder that gyms seemingly the world over like to decorate their reception areas with and can’t help but be curious in respect to whether this was the look Phil was hoping to achieve.

Too focussed on staring at the man to be paying Sam any attention, when he slams me up against the lockers the gasp that escapes my lips is both loud and genuine. 

“Are you simple or something? Do I have to do every fucking this for you?” Sam demands tetchily as he uses one hand to wrench my locker open while the other holds me in place. “I don’t know why I fucking bother with you, I really don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, squirming away from Sam’s hand and hurriedly pulling my bag out from the locker. “I… I’ll try harder,” I continue apologetically as it finally becomes apparent to the man that he’s not alone and he slowly turns to face us. “Please. I’ll just get changed and we can go.”

Grunting, Sam doesn’t bother replying and, looking the man up and down, smiles approvingly. “Nice,” he murmurs as the man, knowing praise when he hears it, looks down his somewhat prominent nose at me and smirks. “Such a… beautiful… body…”

Sod this. If Sam’s going for the best actor Oscar I can at least put my hat in the ring for best supporting actor.

“I can do it!” I blurt out, shifting in front of Sam and giving him an imploring look. “It’ll just take a little time, but I can make my body look like his. I… I’ll do whatever it takes. You’ll see.”

Expecting Sam to either snort or laugh at my declaration, I’m taken aback when he once again slams me up against the lockers and tears my tank top off. “Methinks that may prove to be a case of a triumph of hope over experience,” he sneers, running his finger down the middle of my naked torso and causing a serious case of goose bumps to break out across my skin. “You’re… soft,” he continues flatly as, in a fluid motion, he grabs my wrists and holds my arms above my head. “Just look at you… You’re nothing like him and I doubt you’ll ever be. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to give you the chance to prove me wrong.”

“I…” Sam’s absolute proximity meaning I can feel the warmth of his body against my bare skin, I struggle to concentrate on the here and now and, unable to think of anything better to do, dully shake my head. This… This is too much. It’s an act. I’m not into rough sex or being dominated, but…

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Just… Oh God.

Something unreadable flitting across Sam’s expression, he suddenly releases his hold on my wrists and takes a step back. “You’ve got five minutes to be dressed and in the car or you’re walking home,” he mutters as, with one last lingering look at the Muscle Mary, he spins on his heels and strides out of the locker room.

“He’s right, you know,” the man grunts, pausing to stare at me as, his bag slung over his ridiculously broad shoulder, he makes his way towards the door. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Great. Unasked for advice from a man with no neck. As cold showers go he couldn’t have delivered better if he’d actually tried.

“If I wanted an opinion from you I would have asked for it,” I hiss, straightening up and, relying on poor manners to make my point, turning my back on the man. Sensing him hesitate behind me, I wait for him to say something but he merely snorts a dry laugh and walks out of the room. “Bite me,” I call out childishly. “Neckless git.”

Confident I’ve played my desperate, infatuated, down trodden and abused act to the best of my ability – with no small thanks to Sam, of course – for the time being, I quickly get changed and, keeping my head lowered to avoid the concerned or curious gazes of the men lurking around the corridor, make my way out of the gym. Quickly spotting the Aston Martin parked illegally on the opposite side of street, I cross the road and climb into the passenger seat.

“And the Oscar goes to…” I announce, pulling my seatbelt on as, noticing he’s already taken off the black leather jacket and is no longer looking quite so menacing, I flash a triumphant smile at Sam. “Seriously. You were…”

“Don’t…” His expression giving nothing away, Sam starts the car ands pulls away from the curb. “That would have to be one of the most unpleasant experiences I’ve put myself through for a long time and… I really just don’t want to think about it.”

Puzzled as to why Sam can’t see his performance for the masterpiece that it was, I decide to try again. “But… You should have seen it from my…”

“Please, Chris,” Sam mutters, reiterating the coldness of his response with a frown. “Witnessing it through my own eyes was bad enough. Besides… I hurt you. God knows I didn’t mean to, but…”

“Huh?” Following Sam’s lead, I cut him off mid apologetic ramble and shrug. “What are you talking about? It was all just an act for the voyeuristic members of the peanut gallery. I didn’t for a second believe you actually meant any of it.”

Shaking his head, Sam fixes his gaze on the road and gives every impression of refusing to look at me. “I was too rough when I pulled you off the treadmill,” he states monotonously. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t as I saw the look of pain cross your face. You should have told me to lay off or something.” 

“Uh-uh. I’m a love-sick doormat who only wants to please his domineering lover,” I reply with another unbothered shrug. “That’s the part I’m playing and your performance of sheer, arrogant prickishness reinforced it brilliantly. Take my word for it, you were perfect.”

“Perfect or not, I felt awful doing it,” Sam retorts, giving me the sort of fleeting, icy look that tells me I’d do well to call the topic closed. 

“It did the job, I’m sure of it, and that’s all that matters,” I respond, feeling as though for no particular reason I have to have the last word. “If I don’t get a helpful pusher coming up to me tomorrow to offer their wares to my tragic plight then nothing will bring them to me and we’ll have to come up with a different plan.”

“Fingers crossed it works then,” Sam murmurs, sighing as he brings the car to smooth halt at a red light. “Now, changing the subject slightly… You know that little creep, Barry? He had the nerve to hand me his business card while you were still getting changed. He also made an offer that was ludicrously easy to refuse and pulled a face like a kicked puppy when I informed him in no uncertain terms what he could do with said offer. For a second I honestly thought he was going to burst into tears.”

Laughing, I mentally picture Barry’s confidence levels taking a nosedive at Sam’s brush off and wish I’d been there to see it. “There’s no denying I meet the most interesting people,” I murmur, still snickering. “What about the muscly dude, huh? He was something else. Assuming he did it naturally and without the help of steroids, just how long do you think it would have taken him to get that… uh… physique?”

“At least one very long and very hard year,” Sam replies, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change. “Doing it naturally would have taken a lot of sweat, a lot of protein shakes and a hell of a lot of hard work. I got the feeling though that he was of the opinion that the effort was well worth it.”

“To each their own, I suppose,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose as, not for the first time, I wonder just what it is about the muscly look that appeals to some people. “Personally I just can’t imagine putting that much time and effort into my body. Fit and healthy is fine, but the obsessive working out and sculpting? It doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, imagine devoting that much time and effort just on your body.”

The lights changing to green, Sam puts the car into gear and we’re probably a mile or two down the road before he replies. “I can’t say that comes as any great surprise to me,” he states quietly, giving me a sideways glance, his expression, as I’m becoming quite accustomed to, unreadable.

“Huh?” Just what’s that supposed to mean? “I assume you’re going to explain what you mean by that…”

“Just that I can’t see you… committing… to a project like that,” Sam responds, directing his response to the windscreen. “It would take too long, be too tiresome and, well, it’s just not in your nature to… uh… follow through…”

“Oh…” Curious as to whether Backup’s been sharing her military brat theory with Sam or whether he’s conducting my character assassination solely off his own bat, I fight the urge to – go on the defensive – pout and settle for glaring at the side of his head instead. “If you’re wanting to say something to me then, hey, go right ahead and say it,” I snap, the words coming out of my mouth a touch more viperously than I’d intended. Contrary to popular opinion I’m too thick skinned to be actually hurt by what Sam’s implying but, I don’t know, for some reason I’m still bothered by it and want to try to get to the bottom of it.

“I think you know perfectly well what I’m saying,” Sam replies softly as, clearly disconcerted by what he’s gotten himself into, he allows an idiot in a BMW to cut him off without either a shouted expletive or loud blast of the horn. “I’d never be so insensitive to say you’ve led an entirely charmed life, Chris, but… Come on, you’ve got to admit you’ve coasted through more than a fair bit of it. Sure you put in the effort to become a SEAL and, don’t get me wrong here, I’ve never doubted your abilities, not for a second, but, again… following through with things isn’t exactly your forte. If it takes too long, or seems too hard, or you can’t entirely see the point of it, you… Well, you just move on, don’t you…”

“All of this from my lack of interest in obtaining muscles?” I drawl, backing my unease up with a dry laugh. Why now? Why appear as though he’s got something he wants to say to me now? “You’re good, I’ll grant you that.”

“And you’re quite adept at deflecting things that don’t suit you,” Sam murmurs, taking his eyes off the road long enough to give me a surprisingly easy smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not making an issue out of it as I accepted it’s just how you are a long time ago and, well, maybe while I’m at it I vaguely regret having stupidly mentioned it in the first place. You’d be no more capable of sticking it out in the gym long enough to compete in an oiled-up body-builder competition than I would of shaving my head and covering my body in tattoos. But… What of it? The world would be incredibly boring if we were all the same.”

Hmm… Methinks I’m not the only one in the car who’s adept at side stepping things that could be considered of an uncomfortable nature. Not, however, that I’m either complaining or harbouring any desire to continue down this particular path. Not now, anyway. It’s as inevitable as the rising of the sun in the morning, and while a small part of me would actually like to get it over and done with I’m more than content to let it go for the time being.

If only I had some sort of idea of what Sam’s thinking though. That’d help, that’s for sure.

For now though I’m going to take the reprieve on offer and run with it.

“What have you got planned for the rest of the day?” I query, going all out and less than subtly changing the subject. “If you haven’t already got it all mapped out I thought perhaps we could do something together.”

Giving me a look that can be best described as oddly amused from under an arched brow, Sam shrugs and nods his willingness to move forward with me. “I’d actually been thinking about cleaning the apartment,” he replies, “but you may be able to twist my arm in respect to changing my mind. It’ll have to be something good though because, as you know, I’m rather fond of a good clean.”

“Cleaning?” I snort, pulling a face. “On a Sunday? You’ve got to be kidding me. Oh… And don’t even get me started on actually being fond of such a tedious activity as that’s just wrong. Sad, even. Sundays are for relaxing or going out. They’re most definitely not for cleaning.”

“So says the man who I’m fairly positive feels that way about cleaning any day of the week,” Sam responds mildly. “Given the way you seemed incapable of actually throwing them out, there were times when I honestly used to wonder if the pizza boxes accumulating in your living room were your attempt at modern art.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Very droll. Watch out Damien Hirst, here I come with my pizza boxes,” I retort, laughing. “But, anyway… Don’t try to divert the heat from your… lack of life! Cleaning is abhorrent any day of the week, exactly, but it’s even worse on a Sunday! Just… How could you even contemplate it, you poor lifeless creature, you. I’m… I’m just appalled, I really am.”

As tried and true techniques go, reverting to banter to banish a momentarily unpleasant moment just never fails. It’s also usually quite good for a laugh or three as well.

“Seeing as I’m clearly so sad and lifeless and, I’m sure, an embarrassment to know, why on earth would you be contemplating spending the day with me?” Sam queries as we pull up at yet another red light. “Surely you’d be better off just leaving me to my own devices and putting as much distance between your… uh… cool self and my… loser self as possible.”

“Just call it community service or my good deed for the day,” I reply sweetly, favouring Sam with a full wattage grin. “Hey, look,” I continue, pointing out the driver’s side window at the gawking male passenger of the Range Rover we’ve come to a stop next to. “Maybe he’s wondering if you’re James Bond.”

Dismissing his wide-eyed… fan… in the four-wheel drive with a snort, Sam turns to me and smirks. “If I’m Bond, that would make you my Bond girl.” Pausing, he shakes his head sadly. “Talk about breaking a stereotype.”

“You only say that because you haven’t seen me in a low-cut evening dress and spike heels,” I murmur, snickering. “Oh, and let’s not forget how well I fill out a bikini.”

“Er… Thank you for two of the most disturbing mental images I’ve experienced for a long time,” Sam laughs with a mock shudder. “Now, as I’m beginning to think longingly of simply retreating to my cleaning, if you’ve got an idea as to what to do with the rest of the day, speak now or forever hold your peace…”

“Uh…” Shit. I only asked because I was desperate to move the conversation onto a different playing field, not because I actually had a plan in mind. “Um… How about going for a drive?” I offer, finding inspiration in the traffic light turning green and the feel of the car moving smoothly forward. “We could… uh… I don’t know… perhaps find a pub for lunch and just make a day of it.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” Sam replies, “that’s for sure. If, however, part of your plan is plying me with enough alcohol so as to wrangle your way behind the steering wheel I’m telling you now that you can forget it, I’m not that gullible.”

“No fun, either,” I complain, pouting. “In that case, having seen through my dastardly plan I’m taking the pub off the board and replacing it with fish and chips. The stuff in the soggy paper that you peculiar British so seem to favour as well, nothing fancy.”

“Now who’s no fun?”

“Let me drive and I’ll not only let you choose where we eat but I’ll also pay for it.”

“Nice try, but I’m now hankering for some soggy paper flavoured fish and chips and am thinking I may even go so far as to brave the traffic to Brighton to get it.”

The day suddenly looking very much up on the up, I smile. “I think I can live with that.”

~*~

Sighing, both melodramatically and, given that there’s no one around to hear me, pointlessly, I glance at my watch for the umpteenth time this afternoon and only just manage to control the urge to kick something. Anything would do. Furniture, wall, doorframe – any old inanimate object on which to take my ever increasing frustrations out on. It wouldn’t actually achieve anything, and if I damaged something or left a permanent mark Sam would just blow a fuse when he saw it which, again, despite him being pretty much the cause of my current annoyance, wouldn’t really achieve anything either. 

Which, given that I really feel as though I’d like to kick something, is a shame.

And to think for a far too brief time this morning I thought I’d finally caught a break and that things were simply going to fall effortlessly into place. Ha! As I’ve heard from many, many sources throughout my life, it just doesn’t pay me to think. If the script had gone according to my vision I would have ended the call to Sam, followed Dennis the dealer to a nice secluded spot away from Hard Body, made him tell me what I wanted to know by whatever means necessary and then gone on my merry way to find Phil. It would have been a simple, non taxing act that not only would have kept me occupied but would also have offered up on a platter an end result for all my, admittedly not overly onerous, work.

But no.

Instead of being able to follow through on my information or being allowed to feel of any further use I’m stuck twiddling my thumbs and slowly feeling as though I’m going stir crazy in Sam’s apartment. I don’t have to be here, though. No. For all Sam cares I could be spending my afternoon going round and round on the London Eye or indulging my inner goth in Camden – so long as I’m not where I actually want to be, where I choose to do my lurking and impatient pacing is of no interest to him. I thought of staying out, of perhaps heading to Oxford Street just so I could try to lose myself in the hustle and bustle of people, traffic and relentless noise. I even toyed with the idea of getting to Sam’s office before he left and attempting to trail him. In the end though, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to focus because the only thing on my mind is wanting to know the outcome, I came back here to dwell on everything in relative peace.

Annoyed as I am though at being kept away from the action, I do both understand and appreciate Sam’s reasoning behind wanting me not involved. I can see the sense in it, and I really do think it’s most likely for the best, I just don’t particularly like it, that’s all. I’d rather be in the thick of things, such as they are, than sitting a distance away doing nothing. Patience has never really been one of my strong points and not knowing how Sam’s got on with the information I gave him is, and let’s be perfectly blunt here, doing my freaking head in.

Did the lead pay off? Has he located Phil? If yes, then how is he? If no, then where do we go next? Over four hours have passed since my phone call, so what’s taking him so long? Has something gone wrong? What if Phil’s still drugged to the eyeballs and he lashes out at Sam?

What if I’d been able to help if I’d been there?

Sam’s logic is, as usual, pretty irrefutable in that the chances of Phil reacting unfavourably to my presence – given that I seem to have turned into his own personal demon – would most likely be fairly high and that I’d probably only make the situation worse by hanging around and trying to do the right thing, but…

Fuck it! I hate waiting and I hate not knowing what’s going on. I know it’s petulant of me and I have no intention of hitting Sam with it whenever he finally deigns to put in an appearance because it’s just plain unbecoming, but… Goddamn it! It was my lead and I should be out there seeing it through instead of being stuck here in a going nowhere holding pattern.

Still…

Choosing to think positively here – because the other option just doesn’t bear thinking about – at least our idea of going undercover at Hard Body has paid off. I would have preferred it if the big dumb muscly guy from the locker room yesterday hadn’t waited until Greg (the closest sadist) had put me through a full circuit of everything in the equipment room to approach with his offer of putting me on to someone who could help assist my – apparently much needed, if the expression on his face was anything to go on – desire for all but instant muscles, but there you go. Obviously taking pity on me after witnessing Sam’s truly inspired performance yesterday, he came up to me all buddy-like and whispered in my ear that he knew someone who could help solve my predicament. And that, really, was pretty much that. For all I know Dennis gives him a discount for every new customer he puts his way, but from where I was standing it was all just ludicrously simple. After three trips to the gym and without actually having to voice my interest in steroids to anyone, what I was there for was simply handed to me on a plate. 

Charlie (otherwise known as either the big dumb one or Muscle Mary) let me know – all coached in gentle, patronising terms as though he honestly believed he was doing me a great favour – that he really didn’t think I had it in me to get the body I so desperately (again, his words) needed without… ‘outside assistance’ and that he knew just the man to offer it to me. If I wanted, and he really, really thought I should, all I had to do was give Dennis a call and he’d be able to set me up with all the help I’d ever require. Overjoyed at finally having gotten what I’d been after, I may have been a little over enthusiastic with my gratitude – and the less said about the sheen of tears and surreptitious sniffing I managed to dredge up from somewhere the better – but Charlie, dear dumb thing that he is, brought it and that’s all that really matters.

Armed with Dennis’ phone number and assurances that he was a ‘good guy’ who’d see me ‘right’, I only just managed to stop myself from skipping out of Hard Body and, once I was around the corner and out of view, gleefully phoned Sam with my news. To my way of thinking I’d only been going to bring him up to speed before making an appointment and doing whatever it took to get any information about Phil out of him. Nowhere in my mind was the thought of being made to take a backseat and, having been set straight in no uncertain terms, skulking my way back to the apartment. Yet that’s exactly what happened. Sam wanted to look into Dennis before making the call and he didn’t want me, should everything pan out the way we wanted it to, barging in on Phil for fear of setting him off again. All very logical and all very Sam-like and, to me anyway, all very annoying. I tried to convince him that I could just wait in the car and that he absolutely positively had my word that I’d sit tight and wouldn’t get in the way. I even tried cajoling and the good old fall back of out and out whining, but Sam, armed with, if needed, both SOCA’s computer and man power along with his pretty impressive track record of being right, wouldn’t have a bar of it. If I didn’t do as I was told he was going to send a car to pick me up. He even threatened to have me held for possible terrorist ties, but the laughter in his voice as he said it didn’t exactly leave me fearing for my freedom. Gifting me my very own baby sitter in the form of a chauffeur though, that particular threat I believed and promised, through gritted teeth, that I’d dutifully go back to the apartment and wait to hear from him there.

Four hours ago I was almost – only almost, mind you – content with both his reasoning and assurances that he’d let me know the second he knew something. Now though… Now I’m wishing I’d called his bluff and continued with my original idea of approaching Dennis on my own. If nothing else, if I'd done that, I’d at least know what was going on instead of being stuck here in the dark.

But… Whatever. At the risk of it being the story of my life, what’s done is done and all that. Sam’s call will no doubt be proven correct and at some point today I’ll hopefully know as much as he does. I just have to experiment with the odd, foreign almost, concept of patience and everything will eventually slide into place.

Or so I hope, anyway.

Noticing that the minute hand on my watch has barely moved since I last looked at it, I swear under my breath and slump back against the sofa. I could call Sam, or even send him a text message, but years of hard earned experience stops me. If by chance things weren’t going well and his phone went off it could prove to be a very unwanted diversion and that’d be the last thing I’d want. So, albeit unhappily and with ever-increasing levels of tetchiness, I wait like a good boy and don’t do anything. If I haven’t heard anything within the hour I might throw caution to the winds and – hope he has his phone set to silent – send a message. Until then though I’ll just keep checking the time every three minutes or so and doing my best to think happy, positive thoughts.

On the subject of thinking positive thoughts, while it may in time prove to be yet another example of my knee-jerk, why-think-about-it-in-any-great-detail-when-you-can-just-bite-the-bullet-and-do-it take on life, the other – hopefully – good thing to come out of today is that I’ve made up my mind to return to London to live. Having been unable to stop myself from comparing my life in San Diego to what I’d once had and had even been experiencing in snatches since after the funeral in London, I’d already – during rare moments of complete honesty – been leaning quite heavily towards wanting to return for good and now that I know my apartment is going to be vacated at the end of the month my mind is well and truly made up. Hearing the news from my real estate office lightened my mood so much that I suspect the cab driver, going on his interested expression in the rear vision mirror, thought I was listening to a dirty phone call. Until my mobile rang I’d been sitting in the back of the cab dwelling on Sam’s refusal to let me help and no doubt looking like a thunder cloud so, you know, it’s not like I can blame the cabbie for thinking along those lines. 

It’s probably a prime example of delusional thinking but I like to view the timing of the couple not wanting to extend the lease as a sign. If they’d wanted to stay I know I could have rented or even purchased somewhere else, but I always liked that apartment – which is why, even though I was entrenched in flight mode, I chose to rent it out and instead of putting it on the market – and am already looking forward to once again making it my home. The house in San Diego may be larger, and I know (having heard just about every negative comment on the subject that could be made) that looking out over a cemetery isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but size isn’t everything and I always found the cemetery to be quite peaceful. The apartment also holds a lot of good memories and I hope, even if it is yet another example of wishful thinking, that it will be able to host a lot more. I’m already thinking of calling on Giuseppe to cater when I hold my first dinner party.

Snorting, I rest my head on the back of the sofa and stare up at the ceiling. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’d rather think ahead to the point of hosting a dinner party than I would contemplating how Sam’s going to react when I tell him I’m coming back for good. We’ve been getting on well enough, yesterday’s little display of strangeness aside, that I honestly don’t think he’ll be all that bothered. He may even be slightly pleased as he’ll know it will make Backup happy and if we continue as we have been, as in not daring to talk about anything that could be viewed of a personal nature, we’ve certainly been enjoying each other’s company well enough. If, without ever actually voicing it in so many words, of course, we make a pact to never speak of the past and muddle along as friends who avoid looking outside the square they’ve placed themselves in, there’d be nothing to stop it from working. We could go out occasionally, hold civilised dinner parties, possibly even talk on the phone, and…

And it would be better than nothing.

I’m not entirely stupid. Just because I’ve made the decision to move back to London doesn’t mean I’m any closer to knowing how I truly feel about Sam or whether I feel as though there’s any chance of ever regaining what we once had. I can admit now that I love him, that, really, I never stopped loving him, but as to whether I want to let him know this… Well, that’s not something I’m ready to answer. I can tell him I’m moving back and that I really do want to be friends with him. I don’t, however, know that I’m up to laying myself completely bare and asking if there’d be even the slightest chance he was interested in having another go at it. Maybe I’m being wise to be cautious, or maybe I’m just being a complete and utter wimp, but knowing there’d be a good chance of him replying in the negative, I just don’t want to put myself on the spot like that. Not yet, anyway. So long as Sam doesn’t even know I’m daring to so much as contemplate it, the longer I have to work out just what it is I truly want. When I’m with him though, like yesterday’s trip to Brighton and the way, with much carrying on and behaving as though he was handing over the deeds to his soul, he eventually caved in and let me drive the Aston, I know the answer as clearly as I know my own name.

Yes.

I want what we once had together and would give anything to see it happen. We may be opposites in so many aspects of our lives, but together we’ve always just clicked. Being with him makes me happy, I trust him with my life and, at the end of the day, we honestly get on well together. What happened five years ago was as a result of a number of unfortunate events and I don’t think Sam would disagree if I said we were both equal parts to blame for the ensuing blow up. I could have… He should have… I didn’t have to… If only we’d…

We both played our parts. Perhaps it was even inevitable. The high octane nature of our job having a fair amount to do with it, our relationship had always, even from the very beginning, been intense. Sam, having a far more suspicious nature than me, had never allowed himself to fall in love before, whereas only a tragic turn of events had stopped me from being married. I was free falling when he caught me and the impact for the pair of us – neither looking where they were going or hoping for anything – was both immediate and powerful. The years I spent with Sam were the best of my life and it shouldn’t have ended the way it did.

But it did and life, with all its regrets, goes on.

I think, if we both – went against our very nature – promised to be completely honest with each other, there’d be nothing to stop us making another go of it. We’re both single, it’s obvious we still get on well together and…

Nothing will ever happen if at least one of isn’t brave enough to raise the issue.

I’ll survive if when the, much thought about and much avoided, time comes Sam looks at me with astonishment and says words to the effect of preferring to remain celibate for the rest of his life in preference to ever getting back together again with me. After all, I walked away from him five years ago and managed to more or less get on quite reasonably well with my life. Just because I’m – slightly love-sick – thinking along these lines doesn’t mean Sam’s so much as spared them a thought. I landed in London unannounced and subsequently landed, very gratefully, granted, but very much unasked for, smack bang in the middle of his life. He’s kind to me, looks out for me and assists me in every way he can. Whether this is because he generally wants to though is one of those questions I’m wary of having answered. Maybe he feels obliged to. Maybe he’s counting the hours until I’m out of his hair.

Maybe I should just stop thinking about it all as God knows, as per usual, it’s not getting me anywhere.

I’m coming back to London to live and if it were ever on offer I wouldn’t say no to getting back together with Sam. There. That’s as good as my decision making currently gets.

The sound of a key being turned in a lock sounding like music to my ears, I jump to my feet and wrench the front door open even before Sam’s had time to finish unlocking it.

“About freaking time,” I complain, taking a step back so he can enter. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve been suffering here, huh? Would it have killed you to have picked up a phone to let me know how things were going?”

“Have you quite finished?” Sam retorts, giving me a cool look as he slams the door shut with a loud bang. “I would have called but my phone went flat and I never thought of borrowing one and calling the home phone. Sorry, okay?”

“Oh…” Knowing that he would have called if he could have taking a lot of the wind out of my sails, I reach out my hand and lightly trail my fingers down Sam’s arm as he walks towards the kitchen. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just…”

“Anxious to know how everything went,” Sam finishes, grabbing two cups and switching the coffee machine on before leaning his back against the bench and giving me his full attention. “To put your mind at rest, it all went about as well as could be expected. Dennis coughed up his location and Phil is now safely under Andrew’s watchful eye in St Margaret’s Private Hospital.”

Taken aback by the news that Phil has been taken to a hospital – although, given that I hadn’t spared so much as a single thought as to where he’d end up once we’d finally located him, I really have no idea why I’m feeling as shocked as I am – I blink at Sam and issue forth with a truly lame, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Sam echoes, looking almost as taken aback by my dull response as I’m feeling. “Is that honestly the best you can manage? You were perhaps expecting him to be behind bars? I hate to break this to you, but for that to happen you’d have to press…”

“Uh!” Will wonders never cease? Along with a parrot-like ability to repeat ‘oh’ I can also, just to mix things up a little, grunt. My parents, if they were still amongst the living, would be proud of me.

“Uh?” His expression one of growing bemusement, Sam glances at his watch and shakes his head. “As I was pretty much expected back at the office ten minutes ago already, I think I may forsake my need for coffee and leave you to it as, sorry, Chris, I’m not sure I’ve got the time right now to take you through everything.”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m not actually as dense as I’m giving every impression of being and I promise to stop ‘oh-ing’ and grunting and… and, if it’ll help, I won’t even interrupt. Please, Sam. I need to know everything that’s happened and I… I suppose I was just, although I don’t even know why, a bit shocked to hear that he’s in hospital. And, no, I never expected to hear that he was locked up as, well, I’m not going to press charges. What happened, happened. It’s in the past and I just want to move on. Having him arrested wouldn’t achieve anything and… Shit! From only being capable of one syllable answers I’ve now switched to babbling and… And I’m shutting up now…”

Not quite sure as to what just came over me and wishing like crazy it hadn’t bothered, I shrug and force myself to meet Sam’s gaze. “Sorry. Clearly being left to my own devices this afternoon wasn’t particularly good for my mental health.”

“Clearly,” Sam agrees, watching me closely for a few seconds to ensure I don’t open my mouth again before turning around and attending to the coffee. “After all these years you still have the ability to amaze me, I hope you realise that,” he continues. “Now, as I really do have to get back to work, just shut up and listen. Dennis, when faced with an official looking badge and the threat of serious jail time, was only too happy to give up what I needed and couldn’t have been more obliging. You’d have loved him. He was like, and I’m not kidding here, a jockey on steroids. Short, about Backup’s height, actually, but even more muscly than the guy from Hard Body, Charlie, and covered in tattoos, he truly was not an attractive sight. He even, and you have no idea how hard it was for me not to burst out laughing at this, sounded like a jockey.”

“He sounds like a treat,” I murmur, walking over to join Sam by the bench. “Is he still roaming free or did you put a stop to his halcyon days of drug pushing while you were at it?” We’d never discussed what was going to become of the information picked up at the gym other than how it was meant to be a means to an end in respect to finding Phil, but thinking about it now I can’t say I like the idea of simply turning a blind eye to Dennis’ activities. Some might say that pushing steroids is hardly the crime of the century but having been on the receiving end of someone off their head on them I have to err on the side of the puritan and stake my tent on the side of the fence wanting them stamped out.

“I casually dropped his name, along with all contact details, to the Met,” Sam replies, handing me a cup of coffee with a rather pleased-with-himself looking smile. “I suspect, given how thankful they were for the information, that they’ll already have picked him up.”

“Good.” That’s one steroid-pushing scum bag at least momentarily off the streets. “Now, what about Phil… Dennis was obviously able to put you on to him, yeah?” 

“You could put it like that, I suppose,” Sam responds, looking dare I say it even smugger than he did a moment ago. “Having nowhere else that he could think of to turn to, Phil actually landed on Dennis’ doorstep last Wednesday and hasn’t stepped foot outside since. So… He was just… there, no extra searching required.”

Feeling yet another ‘oh’ of surprise forming in my mouth at Sam’s news, I hurriedly swallow it down and take a sip of coffee. “That was… convenient,” I murmur, watching Sam as he glances at his watch and frowns. “Dennis, I take it, has an altruistic side, or does he just behave like a mother hen to all his customers?”

“Uh-uh. Not Dennis.” Shaking his head, Sam takes a mouthful of coffee and inches towards the doorway. “His brother, Jason.”

“Another dealer, or decent member of society?” I query, trailing after Sam as he heads into the living area.

“Decent member of society, by the looks of things,” Sam replies, coming to a stop behind the sofa. “From what I was able to gather he’s a currently unemployed computer geek of some description who, having been unable to keep up on his rent, just happened to be staying in Dennis’ spare room for the past few months. When Phil arrived, convinced, I might add, that he’d killed you, he took immediate pity on him and took him under his wing. Dennis, when he wasn’t swearing or declaring his innocence, stated that he knew it was a mistake, that he wouldn’t have kept the, and I quote, crazy bastard around… so I think it’s fair to say finding Jason at home by himself was a stroke of luck on Phil’s part. Jason insisted that he be allowed to stay and has been doing his best to look after him ever since. If he hadn’t been there then, yeah, God alone knows where Phil may have ended up.”

“Yay for Jason,” I mutter, giving a wan shrug as Sam finishes his coffee in two, I suspect, scalding gulps. Sighing, I back my wan shrug up with a wan smile and sink down onto the sofa. “Sorry… I know it didn’t sound like it, but I did actually mean it and am thankful to this Jason for having tried to help. But… Did I hear you correctly and Phil… uh… thought he’d killed me?”

Walking around the sofa, Sam places his empty cup on the coffee table and crouches down in front of me. “Whether it was a delusion brought on by the cocktail of drugs in his system or whether he honestly thought he’d hit you one too many times I got the impression that he honestly thought his actions had resulted in your death. I tried to get it through to him that you were alive and well but I don’t think he believed me and it was that point that I decided to call Andrew and let him take over.”

“So… he’s still delusional then?” I sigh, leaning past Sam and placing my cup on the coffee table so I can rub my hands over my face. “Shit! I can’t confess to knowing what I was going to do once we’d located him, but if he’s still on the fucking drugs that just makes it…”

“He’s not still on the drugs,” Sam interrupts, giving my knee a squeeze as he stands up. “Jason made a point of telling me that he hasn’t touched so much as a pain killer since he’d been there and I’m apt to believe him. Keeping in mind here that I’m no medical professional, I’d say he was more… depressed than delusional. Knowing what he’d done, believing that he’d killed you, I think everything just added up to, well, break him. He definitely… looked… broken , that’s for sure.”

Brilliant. There’d probably be some that would think this should please me, that I could view Phil’s depression as a logical form of retribution or even revenge, but hearing about it just leaves me feeling curiously empty. I may not love Phil but, despite what he put me through, nor do I hate him and I garner no sense of satisfaction from the thought of him suffering.

Standing up, I pat my pockets to ensure I’ve got my wallet and phone and start to walk towards the door. “I should go and see him,” I state, knowing it’s the right thing to do while simultaneously not really wanting to see him at all. “St Margaret’s you said, yeah?” 

“That’s right,” Sam confirms, striding past me and positioning himself in front of the door. “You, however, are not going anywhere. Andrew assures me that the psychiatrists at St Margaret’s are the best and that Phil will be in good hands there. He also promised not to leave him until he was convinced he’d accepted that you were still amongst the land of the living.”

“But…”

“Uh-uh. No buts. Andrew wants to get Phil settled in and he specifically requested that you wait until at least tomorrow before visiting.”

“In case I do more damage than good,” I mutter dejectedly as, not knowing what else to do, I return to the sofa and flop down onto it. “But… I’m not saying he needs me. Hell, I’m not even saying I think I’d be able to do anything for him, but… Don’t you think I should put in an appearance? At least that way he’d be able to see for himself that I’ve alive and…”

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Sam states, cutting me off as he retrieves his car keys from his pocket. “Just give Andrew and the shrinks time to get him settled and then I’m sure you’ll be able to see him. We’ve found him, he’s safe, you don’t have to go back to Hard Body and, really, I think that just as good as it’s going to get for the moment. Think about it though, it’s more than you had this morning.”

“Yeah, I suppose…” Sam’s right. Things are indeed better than when I woke up, but… I don’t know, it almost feels like an anticlimax somehow. Phil’s been located, and he’s safe, and both of these things are great. Yet… Now what? I hadn’t thought that far ahead and don’t know what to do. Half-assed, that really is me all over. Fixate on one point and ignore the bigger, long term picture.

“Of course I’m right,” Sam retorts with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Now, I really am sorry about this but I’ve got to get back to work. You’re on your own for dinner too because I have no idea how long I’m going to be.”

Shrugging, I give Sam a small wave. “I’ll be fine,” I murmur, mentally crossing my fingers to protect me from the lie. “Thanks for taking the time to come and bring me up to speed, and thank you too for everything you’ve done to help locate Phil. I really appreciate it and hope I can make it up to you at some stage.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam replies, opening the door. “Don’t over think things, Chris. Everything is falling into place, you’ll see.”

“Mmm…”

Once Sam has stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him I, in a move known and embraced by the apathetic the world over, reach for the television remote, rest my feet on the coffee table and settle back against the sofa.

Just…

Why think and risk confusing yourself even further when you can stare aimlessly at a television screen? 

~*~

Stepping out of the lift into a perfectly beige corridor that looks as though it should belong in an upscale motel, I spot Sam’s go-to doctor, Andrew, standing talking to a short redheaded woman by the far wall and start to make my way towards them. The carpet being as plush as any I’ve ever walked on, my footsteps make no sound and I can’t help but imagine how creepy some of the patients must find the ward at night. Even the air conditioning unit runs silently and despite my ingrained dislike of hospitals I find myself almost missing the usual sounds of footsteps on linoleum floors and buzzers demanding attention. St Margaret’s however is a private hospital, a rather expensive private hospital going on everything I’ve seen so far at that, and I get the impression random noise would be both frowned upon and viewed as unnecessarily unbecoming.

Fearing that I may look – like I feel – as though I’m dawdling, I force myself to straighten my shoulders and slightly quicken my step. I don’t want to be here and despite having – surprised myself, actually – managed to come up with what I like to think is not only a workable plan but also hopefully a good one last night, I’m no closer to knowing what to say to Phil than I am knowing just what it is I hope to have with Sam.

But, whatever. I’m here now and having got this far I’m just going to push on. Having had a lifetime of experience of it, I’m nothing if not good at flying by the seat of my pants and know that I have to do this. Talk to Phil, hopefully be able to present last night’s brainwave to him and have it received favourably, bask in an odd sense of closure and… move on. Well, that’s as close as I’ve got to having a plan anyway. 

“Chris! Chris Keel!”

What the fuck? Why on earth is the redhead standing with Andrew shouting my name and looking as though she’s all but bouncing up and down on the spot with excitement?

Startled by both the volume of her voice and the level of glee she’s managing to inject into it, I stare at the woman as though she’s suddenly grown a second head and, not knowing what I’m about to walk into, start to slow down.

“Oh my God, how lucky am I, huh? I didn’t think I was going to get to see you while you were over.”

Oh. Okay. Adding the strange familiarity she’s applying to me to the fond, almost doting expression on Andrew’s face, a light bulb flicks on in my head and I decide that the woman has to be Madeline, his wife and apparently CI5 receptionist. While the blinding smile on her face and fiery red hair ring a vague chord with me, I still can’t say that I actually remember her and am thankful for the fact that what I can remember are the little titbits of information Andrew dropped while checking over my injuries the other night. 

“Maddy!” I exclaim, glancing past her to Andrew as she barrels towards me and very nearly sighing in relief as he gives a small nod and flashes me a quick, relieved smile. “How wonderful to see you again,” I add, hoping that I’m not overplaying my very limited hand as, clearly remembering me far better than I remember her, she rushes up and gives me a quick hug. Stooping slightly to return her embrace, I give her cheek a quick kiss before extricating myself and taking a step back. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

“Oh, you!” Giggling happily, Madeline gives my arm a light smack before hurrying back to Andrew. “You didn’t tell me that you were expecting Chris,” she mock complains. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have arranged to go shopping with Paige and the three of us could have had lunch together.”

“I didn’t know what time he was going to get here,” Andrew replies apologetically as I do my best to appear disappointed. “Besides, he’s actually here to see a friend. So… Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” I repeat, nodding. “Definitely. I’m sorry, Maddy. I’d love to catch up with you, I really would, but I just really don’t have the time at the moment.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Madeline retorts with another blindingly happy smile as she stands on tiptoe and plants a kiss on Andrew’s cheek. “It’s my turn to apologise now as I’ve got to go and meet my friend. It’s really been great seeing you again, Chris, and, trust me, I really will hold you to a lunch date one of these days.”

Not doubting her for a second, I nod again and smile. “Looking forward to it,” I murmur, making a mental note to ask Sam what his recollections of Maddy are and whether, sitting behind the reception desk at CI5, she was always quite this… vibrant. “See you.”

With one final smile, Maddy, a spring in her step and a swing to her hips, sets off for the lift. Turning to Andrew, I notice both the way his eyes are glued to her and the goofy look of love on his face and feel a momentary spark of jealousy. Obviously still in love, married, happy together – the life they’ve made with each other a strong defence against the other more mundane or unpleasant aspects of life. For a few years at least I had it with Sam and, seeing it played out so innocently and instinctively before me, there’s no denying I want it – to be part of a pair – again.

“You know something?” His wife having disappeared into the lift, Andrew claps me on the shoulder and indicates that I should follow him into a nearby office. “You’re a good person, Chris.”

“Excuse me?” Unsure as to what he’s getting at with his totally off field comment, I trail after Andrew and wait until he’s closed the door and is making his way behind the desk before seeking further clarification. “How can you say that when my… selfishness… is half of the reason Phil’s…”

“I wasn’t talking about Phil, and I’ll get to him in a moment,” Andrew interrupts, taking a seat and gesturing that I should do the same. “What I was referring to was how you treated Maddy. The bunny-in-the-headlights expression you sported when she first shrieked your name told me pretty obviously that you still don’t remember her, but you hid it extremely well and as far as she’d now be concerned you remember her as clearly as she remembers you.”

Sitting down in the lone scuffed leather chair in front of the desk, I snort dismissively and shake my head. “That only makes me a good actor, not a good person.”

“I disagree,” Andrew counters, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers in a manner that leaves me thinking I’m in danger of being psychoanalysed. “Put on the spot, you quickly worked out who you hoped she had to be and reacted accordingly. Maybe it’s a flow on from your training, given that I assume you’ve experienced your fair share of undercover work, but I honestly lean towards it more being the case of you simply being a good person. You knew the truth, that you don’t remember her and, I suspect, find her over-exuberance a little… uh… alarming, would hurt her feelings so you… lied or, to use your term, acted… to protect her feelings. I personally thought it was very noble of you and commend you for it.”

“I couldn’t see any point in hurting her feelings, that’s all,” I reply, shrugging. “Most people in the position I was in would have reacted the same way. It doesn’t make me a good person at all. If anything it’s probably a good demonstration of my desire to avoid conflict at all cost. But… Enough about me. I’m here to find out how Phil’s going and to see him, not because I wanted a free consultation with a psychiatrist.” Pausing, I look across the desk at Andrew and hope that what I’m about to say next isn’t going to offend him. I’ve been before a lot of psychiatrists in my time and I’ve moved on from petulantly viewing them as nothing more than a waste of time, but that still doesn’t mean I’m wanting a session with one now. Especially not one who appears to be quite good friends with Sam. The professional code of silence is one thing, but I just don’t even want him to be so much as aware of any of the intricacies we’ve managed to create between us. “Besides, I thought you were a… GP?”

“MO, Medical Officer, actually,” Andrew responds, thankfully not looking at all bothered by the abruptness of my question. “Psychiatry is an area I’m interested in though and I have covered quite a few of the courses. My work with the Met and SOCA and all the others leads me frequently into the realm of forensic psychiatry and I’m thinking one day I might like to focus on that. For now though I study when I can and as I’ve got a few friends on the staff here at St Margaret’s I come here and observe whenever I’ve got a moment to spare. Don’t worry, Chris. I don’t want to practice on you and had just been making an observation.”

Suspicion not being an easy feeling to put to bed, I stare at Andrew for a few seconds before deciding to take his response at face value and nodding. “Sorry. Private hospital, psych ward, years of experience of sitting on this side of the desk while psychiatrists busily jot notes down on paper – just call me overly cautious and… uh… maybe overly defensive.”

“The way I see it, Chris, you’ve been out of your comfort zone ever since you first heard of Malone’s death and, even if I did actually know you, that makes you unpredictable and subsequently forgivable,” Andrew states with an easy going smile. “In other words, you’d have to do something pretty damn heinous for me to actually form a negative opinion of you and I think we’re both fairly confident that isn’t going to happen. Now… Let’s move on, yes? You’re here because you want to know how your friend Phil is, not to talk to me.”

“And to see him,” I add, trying to sound a little more enthusiastic than I feel. “Sam was only able to tell me the basics last night before having to go back to work and I want… no, need to know how he is. I doubt I can help in any way but you have my word that if there’s anything at all that I can do, that I’ll do it. If he needs anything I’ll get…”

“Whoa… How about we take a step back or two first,” Andrew interjects, standing up and walking around the desk. “First I’ll tell you how Phil is,” he continues, perching himself on the desk in front of me, “then you can ask any questions you may have and then we can cover whether there’s anything you can do for him. How does that sound?”

“Just peachy,” I mutter, pushing my chair a few inches back in order to not feel quite so crowded by Andrew looming over me. “As you’re still in training or whatever, you’re not the one in charge of his care though, are you? I only ask so I can get everything right in my head.”

“As I was the one who filled in the papers to have him admitted, I’m his listed MO,” Andrew explains, reaching behind him and picking up an engraved nameplate from the desk to show me. “Dr Matthew Scanlon, whose nameplate I’m showing you and whose desk I’m currently sitting on, is his psychiatrist. Matthew is busy with other patients at the moment though and we thought, given that I’ve met you before, have access to Phil’s notes, and observed his two sessions with Matthew, that it would be okay for me to meet with you for this… uh… information session or whatever you’d like to call it…”

It all sounding reasonable enough to me, I nod my agreement and settle back in my chair so I can give my full attention to Andrew. “Works for me,” I confirm. “So, please… Let’s move on to Phil and the… uh… most obvious question of all, is he going to be okay?”

“Keeping in mind here that it’s still very early days and that it’s going to largely centre around how much work he’s prepared to put into it, he should be fine,” Andrew replies, returning the nameplate to the desk. “The drug dealer’s brother, Jason, did a great job of keeping him off the drugs, so having him already clean by the time he arrived here was a very good start. That said, the steroids and whatever else he may have experimented with are only half of Phil’s problems.”

“Sam mentioned that he was convinced that he’d killed me,” I state somewhat blandly, “and that because of that belief he’d… sunk into a deep depression. Is that the case, yeah, do you think, he’s just depressed?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it… just… depressed but, yes, he’s certainly suffering from depression. Matthew doesn’t believe it’s a clinical depression, however, which is a positive sign, and with the right professional help it’s hoped he’ll make a full recovery.” Reaching behind him again, Andrew gropes around the desk until he finds the folder of case notes he’s searching for and picks it up. “Physically he appears to be a little under nourished,” he continues, flipping the folder open and beginning to read from the notes, “but apart from a headache that’s probably being caused by his system adapting to being drug free – like the one you yourself would have suffered last week, I suspect – he has no physical ailments or injuries.”

Unable to stop myself from immediately thinking about my own – still healing far too slowly for my liking – bruises, I wrinkle my nose and snort. “How fortunate for him,” I mutter, dismissing the look of surprise on Andrew’s face with an airy shrug. “What? I’m here because I honestly want to help, but… it’s a little hard not to bear a grudge, you know… You’ve only seen the bruising, you haven’t had to live with it…”

“And nor did I have to live through what he did to you,” Andrew responds quietly, his expression softening as he returns his attention to the case notes open on his lap. “While it’s possible we’ll never know for sure, it’s fairly safe to say that Phil’s paranoia, jealousy and subsequent actions are as a direct of his steroid taking. The, and forgive me here as I’m not up with the correct terms to use, mix he was taking in San Diego would have started the problems, but it was the different mix he picked up in Hard Body that pushed him over the edge and made him do what he did. Now, the thing is he’s now fully aware of his actions and most likely has been ever since Jason took him under his wing and refused his demands for more drugs. And it’s that, the awareness, that’s feeding his depression. He knows what he did to you and hates himself for it.”

“But he’ll be able to push past that and pull himself back together again though?” I know it’s a simple question, and one I’ve been asking in varying ways ever since following Andrew into the office, but really it’s the only thing I want confirmed with as much certainty as a member of the medical profession is able to offer me.

“He needs to accept the various factors behind his actions, continue to accept help and, to borrow a page from your book, simply move on with his life,” Andrew replies, closing the case notes and placing them on the desk next to him. “So, yes… In due course it is of the opinion of everyone who’s met him at St Margaret’s that he stands every chance of being able to put this behind him and to successfully get on with his life.”

“Good.” Satisfied with Andrew’s response, I nod and decide the time has come to indulge a little in my own love of forever wanting to move full steam ahead. “Do you think he’d benefit from returning to San Diego and being surrounded by a support network of friends there?” I query. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but the ones he does have are a close knit bunch that I know would go out of their way to stand by him and I thought perhaps having them around might work in his favour.”

“Having friends and people who care around you is always a good thing,” Andrew murmurs, giving me a suspicious look that tells me he already knows that I’m very deliberately going somewhere with this. “I would however recommend if you’re planning on taking him anywhere from St Margaret’s that you either book him straight into another hospital or get him immediately onto the books of a psychiatrist. He will be fine, but it’s just going to take time and I’d hate for him to… fall through the cracks…”

“If you’re able to give me the name of the best facility and that of a respected psychiatrist in San Diego then I’ll be happy to make the arrangements and cover the costs,” I reply, meeting Andrew’s gaze and offering him a hopefully reassuring smile. “At the risk of well and truly sounding like a cracked record here, I really do want whatever is in his best interests.”

And mine, but I’m sure that goes without saying.

Nodding, Andrew holds my gaze and after a few seconds cautiously returns my smile. “Why do I get the impression you’ve already got some sort of plan…”

“Mmm… It may be rubbish and completely not viable but, yes… I have sort of come up with what I’m hoping is a… goodish… plan.” Suddenly feeling as though I can no longer keep still, I stand up and begin to pace in front of the desk as I hurriedly share my idea with Andrew. “To start with, and this really is something entirely separate and not related in… uh… the most obvious sense at all, I’ve decided to move back to London. Now, because Phil’s apartment block very nearly burnt down and his own apartment was ruined by smoke and water damage he’s been living with me for the best part of the year and I was thinking, as I’ll no longer be needing it, of… in a sense… making arrangements for him to take over the occupancy of the house. I’d do it properly, through a lawyer and all that, as I’m not wanting to simply hand it to him on a silver platter by way of either pity or… uh… blatant stupidity, you know, I totally forgive you for everything you did to me so, here, have a free house, that sort of thing. Having spent most of his money on the steroids and the ticket over here, he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go and I think being able to remain in familiar surroundings and to not have to worry about finding new accommodation would… well… be good for him. I’d expect all the utilities to be paid and probably for him to pay a token rent and undergo biannual or whatever inspections, but other than that the house would pretty much be his and he could do what he liked to it. Unlike my apartment in London which I’m strangely attached to and looking forward to being able to move back into, I know already that I wouldn’t care if I never saw the house again and am completely fine with the idea of handing it over to him…”

Pausing for breath, I come to a stop in front of Andrew and give an expansive shrug. “Well, that’s the plan I’ve come up with, anyway. Oh! And of course it’s all dependant on Phil being agreeable to it. If he wants to stay here or whatever then, hey, I don’t care. My moving back to London has nothing to do with Phil and I can just as easily sell the house as leave him settled in it. It’s just…uh… It’s just an idea, that’s all.”

“One that you’ve clearly put a lot of thought into,” Andrew responds, his expression one of concentration as he stands up and glances at his watch. “Depending, of course, on what Phil himself wants, I can actually see considerable merit in your plan. His accommodation would be familiar and assured, he would have a network of friends for company and a city that he knows and is comfortable with, and… Yes. I really do think it would add up to be very much to his benefit. If, however, and this I can not stress enough, it’s what he wants.”

“Of course. Look, it’s, as the saying goes, no skin off my nose either way,” I reply, suspecting that the time is rapidly approaching where I’ll actually have to face Phil and trying to ignore how my heartbeat is increasing at the mere thought of seeing him again. “I assist in settling him back in San Diego or I walk away now, leaving him to his own devices. Knowing that I’ve done what I can to help may be preferable but at the end of the day I’m just going to put this behind me and get on with my own life. If you’re not totally against the idea though, I plan to make the offer to him anyway because then, if nothing else, I’ll know I’ve done what I can.”

“Well, as I pretty much just said, I can see some definite benefits for Phil in being back in San Diego,” Andrew murmurs as he begins to walk towards the door. “London wouldn’t exactly hold any pleasant memories for him and most people react well to being back in familiar surroundings. I would however suggest that instead of just handing over the keys and leaving him to it that he perhaps spend a little time in a facility like St Margaret’s first, just to give him the best possible start. If you’d like I could ask Matthew for his recommendations for both a hospital and a psychiatrist in San Diego? I’ll also run your plan by him so he’s kept abreast of what’s going on.”

“Sounds good to me,” I respond, my feet suddenly feeling as though they’re weighted down by lead as Andrew opens the door and gestures me out into the corridor.

Oh God… I’m about to see the man I last saw looming over me with a crazed look in his eye as he bound my wrists and tied me to the bed and… Goddamn it. I’m actually nervous. Logic screams that he can’t hurt me. Not only is he suffering depression and confined to a hospital room but I’m also in control of myself this time and know I can have his head firmly introduced to the wall before he’s even laid a finger on me, but…

Wanting to do the right thing and actually wanting to be in the same room as him are two different things, that’s all I’m saying.

“Come on, Chris,” Andrew states, leading me along the corridor to the door that leads into the stairwell. “Matthew should be just about finished with his patient now and I can have a word with him while you’re seeing Phil.”

There being nothing I can think of saying in reply, I give a noncommittal grunt and follow Andrew down a flight of stairs to the second floor. I know already, having read it on the sign in reception before taking the lift to the third floor, that I’m now on the private psych ward and that behind one of the closed doors, in the corridor that’s as quiet and as beige as the one above it, Phil will be waiting for me.

“Is there anything I should know before seeing him?” I query nervously as Andrew comes to a stop in front of a door and reaches for the handle. “I just… uh… you know… don’t want to do anything to upset him if it can be at all avoided…”

“You’ll be fine,” Andrew smiles, giving me a quick pat on the back with his free hand. “He’ll probably be shocked to see you as there’s still some doubt as to whether we convinced him of the fact you were still alive, but other than that I can’t foresee any reaction that could be considered out of the ordinary. He’s very quiet and I suspect he’ll be extremely apologetic, but you have my word that you’re in no danger. If it makes you feel better though, the red button by the inside of the door is a panic button and, if pushed, will alert all staff that assistance is required in the room.”

“Wonderful.” Yep. That’ll do it. I feel much better now.

Stepping back from Andrew in order to allow him to open the door, I take a deep breath and with a display of confidence which is just that, a display, stride into the room. A tiny sliver of luck being on my side, I locate Phil sitting in a pale blue armchair in the corner by the bed before he notices he has a visitor and am able to take everything in to the best of my ability before he reacts. The room, like everything else I’ve seen of St Margaret’s, has more in common with a classy motel than it does a hospital and once again the tediously neutral colour of beige reigns supreme. Touches of varying tones of blue thankfully break up the blandness though and if not for the restraints just visible under the duvet on the bed you really would think you were in a motel room anywhere the world over.

But I’m not here to critique the accommodation.

Flinching slightly as I sense Andrew gently pulling the door closed behind me, I gaze at Phil as he slowly reacts to the fact he’s no longer alone and wait for a discernible emotion to settle over me. His brown hair is clean yet uncombed and there are dark circles under his haunted hazel eyes. Pale and unmoving, he doesn’t look anything like the psychotic creature who threw me around as though I was a rag doll, yet I realise I still don’t have it in me to either trust him or to simply give in to feeling pity for him. He scared and hurt me, possibly could have even killed me and, regardless of the reasons, he’s no longer the man I once welcomed into my life.

“Chris? Is that…” An expression of shock taking up residence on Phil’s face as he finally notices I’m in the room with him, he lurches to his feet and staggers towards me. “Oh my God! Just… Oh my God! I thought… You were dead. I… I was positive that I killed you,” he babbles, tears welling in his dull eyes as, not wanting him to touch me, I back myself up against the wall, the panic button always in sight out of the corner of my eye. “They… They told me that I hadn’t but… but I didn’t believe them! Just… How could I? They weren’t there. They didn’t see everything I’d done to you. The last time I saw you… you… you looked dead and then… when I went back the room… The room was cleaned out and… and I was convinced I had to have killed you! There… There just wasn’t any other explanation for it! Chris… I…”

Suddenly noticing the way I’ve shifted away from him and am no doubt looking as though I’m frozen to the spot, Phil comes to a stop and, with a strangled gasp, buries his face in his hands. “Shit… Shit, shit, shit!” he mumbles agitatedly through his fingers. “Maybe you’re not even real and I’m so out of my fucking head that I’m hallucinating what I most want to see. Nothing… Fuck it! Nothing would surprise me any more…”

“I…” Never having been able to see another living creature suffer unnecessarily, I force myself to walk towards Phil and tentatively brush my hand down his arm. “It’s okay,” I murmur, tentatively holding my arm towards him as he drops his hands and peers at me through tear bright, far too wide eyes. “I’m alive. Touch… Uh… Touch my arm if you don’t believe me. You didn’t kill me, I really am here and… and I’m fine. Seriously. I… I’m fine…”

Sniffing, Phil watches me closely for a moment before lightly closing his hand around my arm and giving it a gentle squeeze. His touch chills me but, knowing that it has to be done, I stand my ground. “Thank God,” he whispers, backing away from me and returning to the armchair. “I… I’m sorry, Chris,” he adds, sinking down into the chair and once again burying his face in his hands. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness and I… I’ll understand if you hate me, but… but you have no idea how relieved I am that you’re… uh… okay. I’ll never be able to make it up to you, I know that, but I want you to know that I’m sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry…”

“I… I don’t hate you,” I state softly, moving around the bed to stand in front of Phil as though operating entirely on autopilot. “I’d be lying if I said I was overly fond of you at the moment, but I don’t hate you. You… You weren’t really you when you did those things and I know that.”

“It.. It’s still all m-my fault,” Phil stammers, lowering his hands but turning his head to face the wall in preference to looking at me. “The steroids may have pushed me over the edge, but no one forced me to take them. I chose to take the Godforsaken things and because of that I’m to blame for everything that happened. I… Oh God, Chris! I’m so fucking sorry. When I think of what I did to you I just want to…”

“It’s in the past,” I interrupt, crouching down and placing a somewhat dithery feeling hand on Phil’s knee. “It… It’s all in the past,” I repeat as, with yet more tears and sniffles, he slowly looks down at me. “Nothing can change what you did, Phil, but it’s over and done with. I survived and, as you can see, I’m quite fine. My friend Sam rescued me and I’ve moved on. Now I want you to do the same. You can live in the past and feel sorry for yourself until you take your last breath or you can just suck it up and push forward.”

“I…” Shaking his head, Phil stands up and brushes past me. “I don’t deserve to move forward,” he retorts, positioning himself in the corner of the room and staring at me wide eyed as I get to my feet and face him. “What I did was unforgivable and I should just be left somewhere to rot! I… I’ve always prided myself on being a nice person and… and… Would you believe I’d never even hit anyone in my life before? Never been in a fight, never hurt an animal let alone another person, yet… The things I did to you, I…”

“Living in the past isn’t going to achieve a fucking thing,” I snap, knowing that Phil is speaking from the heart and that if I were in his shoes I’d probably be saying exactly the same things, but at the same time well and truly having heard enough of it. “It’s now just history. The steroids made you do what you did and despite having been the unlucky recipient of your… uh… rage… I chose to find you and here we are. I’m alive, you’re safe and in good hands, and we’re both going to move on. I know you’re sorry and if it helps, yes, I accept your apology. You weren’t yourself and, really, there’s nothing more that needs to be said on the subject.”

Sighing heavily, Phil hugs his arms around himself and gazes across at me, his expression a mixture of contemplation and hope. “I still hate myself,” he whispers, watching me closely for my reaction.

“And I still wish I’d dragged my head out of my ass and noticed the changes in you,” I counter, folding my arms across my chest and hoping I can manage to out stare him. “According to Jarred you were wanting to change your body for me in the first place and…”

“It was only partly for you,” Phil murmurs, cutting me off and, to my decided relief, dropping his gaze. “When I saw you staring at that guy part of me wanted to be able to make you stare at me like that while… while the other part of me just wanted to look like him… period. So… Don’t… Don’t blame yourself for my vanity and stupidity…”

“I still should have noticed the changes in you and said something,” I repeat firmly as, shuffling along the wall so as to avoid getting too close to me, Phil once again returns to the armchair. “But, you know something? Just… Whatever. I should have said something, you should have laid off the steroids and… Here we are, both with our own fair share of blame demons clinging to our back, but still standing. And, you’ve got to believe me, Phil, that’s all that matters.”

Sitting down heavily in the chair, Phil plucks at the knees of his too large track pants – reminding me of his suitcase sitting back at Sam’s and how I should arrange for a courier to bring it over to him – and, to my surprise, smiles shyly. “The man who came for me yesterday,” he murmurs, changing the topic in a way that makes me dare to believe he’s accepted my lecture about putting the past behind him, “he was the same one that dropped you off at the apartment that night, yeah?”

“It was,” I confirm, taking a seat on the end of the bed so as not to look as though I’m standing over Phil. “His name is Sam and… uh… he’s an old friend of mine.”

“Just a friend?” Phil queries lightly, wiping the tears away from under his eyes with his fingers as he makes himself comfortable in the armchair. “The look in his eyes told me that he would have been perfectly happy to hurt me if I… uh… resisted,” he continues, looking up and both meeting and holding my gaze. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I read that to mean he had to care about you greatly…”

Sam… Dear, emotionless and forever focussed Sam actually giving of… caring… vibes? I think I’m touched. I also think I would have loved to have been there to see it for myself. And, if, albeit unconsciously, he was giving every indication of just looking for a way to seek revenge on my behalf, does that mean… ?

Not wanting to let on how much Phil’s seemingly random observation has effected me, I dredge up a bland smile and shake my head. “Sam’s not one to mess around,” I mutter with a shrug as I decide to follow Phil’s lead and change the subject. “Now, back to you… Whether you feel up to it or not, I want you to think of the future and to tell me what it is you’d most like to happen…”

“I…” Hanging his head, Phil returns his gaze to his knees and directs his response to the floor. “Even though I know I have nowhere to return to, I… I’d like to go home, back to San Diego. Jason’s kindness aside, London doesn’t hold any great memories for me and I’d like, even though I know I’ll have to find somewhere to live, to go home…”

“Actually, about that…” Mentally clapping my hands together happily, I shift along the bed until I’m closer to Phil and lightly touch him on the shoulder. “I have a proposition that I’d like you to listen to…”

~*~ 

Flipping the lid of the suitcase closed, I lift it off the bed and return it to its designated position on the floor. Another thing ticked off as done on my mental to-do-list, I survey the bedroom and sigh with satisfaction. The bottles of pills have gone from the bedside table and in their place, looking much neater and making the room look far less of that of an invalid, is a boarding pass and my passport. All my clothes have been picked up from the floor and returned to my suitcase, the collection of water bottles have been deposited in the recycle bin in the kitchen and all it will take for the room to be returned to Sam’s boring version of perfection will be for the bed to be made properly, as opposed to merely ‘straightened up’ like it currently is.

It’s a small thing, meaningless, really, in the grand scheme of things, but adding the fact I’ve already packed and indulged in my interpretation of tidying on top of everything else I’ve managed to achieve since leaving St Margaret’s early this afternoon is almost like the icing on the cake. All I really have left to do, apart from meeting Phil and his escort nurse at Heathrow tomorrow morning, is to tell Sam I’m going, thank him profusely once more for everything he’s done for me and, oh, hit him with the positively tiny fact of life that I’ll be back. And by back, I mean for good. And soon. Feeling as though I’m really on a roll with my ability to not only plan but to also set things in motion at the moment, my aim is to be back out of San Diego by Sunday. That’ll give me three full days to get everything sorted out and settled and I’m determined to get it all done in that time. I don’t want to risk falling prey to the forever lingering doubts by taking too long and just want it all over and done with. I’ll do what I have to do and then I’m heading straight back to London, where – having made my bed I’ll have to work out how best to lie in it – I’ll focus on working out just what exactly it is I want to do with myself.

As plans go it may not be a particularly great one, but it’s a start, and that in itself is more than I usually arm myself with. What’s more, I’m actually looking forward to it. Sure, it may be seen as yet another case of feeding Backup’s military brat theory but, to me anyway, I think this time it’s different. I’m actually returning to a place I turned my back on, instead of simply picking somewhere entirely new, and I’m prepared to fight for what I want instead of just pushing it into the too hard basket and moving on.

Oh, and let’s not forget the incredible amount of planning I’m putting into actually getting everything as right as I possibly can. It being so far out of character, I almost feel like a man possessed, crossing the proverbial ‘t’s’ and dotting the proverbial ‘i’s’ left right and centre. Phil looking pitifully grateful at my offer to get him back to San Diego and settled, in due course after he’s been medically decreed up to being out of care, in the house, was just the start of my great day of planning. His psychiatrist at St Margaret’s, Dr Scanlon, agreed that it would be in his best interests to return home and between us we worked out that – there was no time like the present – tomorrow wouldn’t be too early at all to look for a flight and that, so long as I was paying, the hospital would be only too happy to provide an escort nurse for the journey. 

The big tough ex-SEAL part of me wanted to brush off Dr Scanlon’s offer of a nurse but, not wanting to run so much as the slightest risk of having Phil either lash out at me or suffer some sort of relapse, I accepted it without hesitation. This way he’ll have continuity of care, she’ll be able to hand over his case notes in person to the staff at Oak View Lodge, the private psychiatric facility in San Diego Dr Scanlon has been able to pull a few strings to get him admitted to and, yes, I’ll be able to travel in peace and won’t really have to deal with him. Which, it has to be said, works for me. All I have to do is pay for the tickets and meet them at Heathrow. For sheer peace of mind, paying for the nurse’s return ticket is easily money well spent and I’m thankful to the doctor for having suggested it.

Not content with just having sorted Phil’s travel details and hospital care out though, I’ve also been in contact with my lawyer, worded him up on what I’m wanting to do with the house, and made an appointment for Friday. In a truly inspired moment I even phoned a removalist and arranged for packing boxes to be delivered first thing Thursday morning. And, perhaps most importantly of all, I called Backup and spoke to her for over an hour, bringing her up to speed with not only everything I’d been up to but also with the fact I was moving back. Her delight at the news was so infectious – not to mention quite heart warming – that by the time I finally managed to get her off the phone my jaw was aching from grinning so much at having been able to make her sound so genuinely happy.

Being this organised not being how I usually roll at all, I’ve probably missed something that will end up biting me unexpectedly on the ass but, oh well, these things happen. For now at least I’m pretty happy with myself. Today has been a good day, there’s really no two ways of looking at it. I faced Phil without breaking down and I honestly do believe the plan I’ve been busily working on all afternoon is not only a good one, but also the… right… one, the one that really is in the best interests of all concerned.

If at the end of the month I’m sitting in my apartment surrounded by boxes and having some form of panic attack over what I’ve done then… So be it. I’m determined to see it through. My desire to try a relationship with Sam again may prove to be wishful thinking but, and who knows, maybe I’m just high on this odd sensation of knowing what it is I’m doing, I don’t care. I’ll never know if I never try, and if I don’t try I’m going to regret it. Besides, what’s the worse thing that can happen anyway? It’s not like I haven’t survived being dismissed by Sam before.

Wondering if there’s any beer left in the fridge – because, hey, I really think I deserve a drink after all the work I’ve done today – I leave the bedroom and walk through the apartment towards the kitchen. Nearing it, the tell-tale sounds of keys jingling in the lock brings me to a sudden stop and, all but bouncing up and down on the spot with nervous energy, I turn to face the front door. If Sam came home last night I never heard it and there were no signs that he’d been through that I could see when I got up this morning. Whatever it is that’s going on at work at the moment keeping him busy, I haven’t even heard from him today and this will be the first I’ve seen him since he left to return to the office yesterday afternoon.

Unlike everything else which I’ve organised to within an inch of its life, I haven’t bothered to dwell on what I’m going to say and have every intention of just winging it. Knowing from experience that Sam doesn’t react well to the emotional equivalent of information-overload, I’m leaning towards just keeping it to the mere basics – taking Phil back to San Diego tomorrow, but then I’m coming back for good and really hope that we can catch up. If even that seems too much for him I’ll redirect his attention to the crate of that horrid wine Richards’ brought with him on Saturday night and that he seemed so strangely enamoured with which I picked up on the way back to the apartment as a small token of my appreciation for all that he’s done.

And that, pretty much where Sam’s concerned, is the closest thing I’ve got to a plan. Everything – or should that possibly be ‘anything’ – else can wait until I’m back in London and he’s had time to adapt to this… change. Who knows, maybe by then I’ll have the perfect speech already to pitch to him and everything will simply fall neatly into place.

Granted, flying pigs may have their own runway at Gatwick by this stage as well but, again, so be it.

The front door opening, the greeting I’d been about to welcome Sam home with dies on my lips as the man who half stumbles through it into the living area isn’t Sam. In fact, he’s not someone I’ve ever met before and I stare at him with interest as, looking flush and with the top button of his shirt undone and his tie loosened, Sam follows him inside and shuts the door. The man is – of course – attractive, with his height-of-fashion haircut, high cheekbones and designer stubble, and his charcoal suit looks as though it was tailored especially for his tall, lean body. He looks, in other words, as though he’s stepped from the pages of a style magazine. Next to him, barefoot in my jeans and crumpled t-shirt, I probably look like something that’s stumbled in off the street.

Do I care however?

Hell no.

If anything I’ve got to concentrate on looking either unbothered or perhaps even just a tad pissy instead of giving in to my natural urge to laugh and clap my hands together like an over excited child.

Having been in close to this exact same position before, I know what Sam’s up to and what it is he’s hoping to achieve with this little display of… wantonness.

What I also know is that he must have been in contact with Andrew and already knows of at least part of my plan.

And, seriously, it’s all too perfect (and promising) for words. I couldn’t have hoped for a better reaction from Sam, not even if I’d been able to script it myself.

“Evening!” I beam as Sam feigns surprise at finding someone in his living room and the man slowly looks me up and down and gives every impression of imagining how I’d look naked. “I’m sorry. If I’d known you were bringing home a… guest… I would have made myself scarce.”

“Chris! I…” Blushing on cue, Sam gives an embarrassed shrug and shifts closer to his new friend. “I thought you’d still be at the hospital,” he murmurs with a rueful shake of his head as, apparently transfixed, the man continues to stare at me with evident interest. “If I’d known…”

“Your friend is somewhat easy on the eye,” the man interrupts – with the all the subtlety of a sledgehammer – in a heavy French accent as he lightly touches Sam on the arm and nods in my direction. “I would not say no if you were wont to invite him into the bedroom.”

Oh dear God. This just keeps getting better and better. Not only is Sam feeling unnerved enough to indulge in his favourite, well honed ‘you mean so little to me that, look, I’m having casual sex in preference to having to deal with my feelings’ act but now his fuck buddy du jour is wanting a threesome. Brilliant. Just… Brilliant. I’m not interested, but if it wasn’t for the tattoo of bruises still giving me the body of someone to be more pitied than desired I’d almost be inclined to take him up on the offer because I suspect it would cause Sam to have a coronary on the spot. Which, you know, would just about serve him right for yet again pulling this damn trick on me.

“What? No!” Looking about as mortified as I’ve ever seen him, Sam gives a nervous laugh and shoots me a dismissive look as he closes his hand around the man’s arm and turns him in the direction of the bedroom. He then, as I try my hardest not to smirk like the Cheshire Cat, launches in to rapid fire French and all but shoos his friend out of the living room.

His expression an ego-boosting one of disappointment, Frenchy, with a heartfelt sigh, gives me one last lingering look before dutifully undulating his way towards the bedroom. Feeling as though I have to get the last word in for some reason, I ignore the look of relief on Sam’s face and, as brightly as I can muster, call out, “You’re not bad yourself! Maybe another time, yeah?”

Grabbing my arm as, turning around briefly, the man flashes a truly predatory smile in response, Sam pulls me into the kitchen and shoves me back first against the breakfast bar. “What the hell are you playing at?” he hisses, releasing his hold on my arm and taking a rapid step backwards.

“Me? I’m not playing at anything,” I reply, straightening myself up and – not caring one iota that I could well be running the risk of setting him truly off – strolling past Sam to the fridge. What I don’t add, as I grab a can of beer and flip the tab, is that I’m not the one putting on the performance at all and that I’m actually slightly surprised he could even, brazenly faced, direct that very question at me. I’ll admit I may have played it up for Frenchy’s benefit – and okay, perhaps to push Sam’s buttons just that little further – but as far as I’m concerned he asked for it. I’m long over reacting with indignation and hurt to Sam’s random conquests and if he thought about it, instead of going for the panicked, knee-jerk reaction of old, he’d have known better than to even try it.

The first couple of times I encountered Sam’s penchant for using casual sex as a form of protection from his own feelings we were still dancing around our growing interest in each other and I didn’t really think anything of it. Years later – and this is why I really don’t understand why he’s bothering to drag it out again now – he admitted to embracing the one night stand route in the hope they’d satisfy him and stop him from constantly thinking about me, his (to his great dismay) oddly endearing partner. When it didn’t work though and we ended up together anyway, instead of accepting that that particular plan was a failure and taking a different path – like, I don’t know, perhaps actually voicing his doubts and fears – Sam reverted to form and went back to the comforting arms of strangers to push me away.

Not having Sam’s Titanic size issues with emotions I knew very early on that I loved him and finding him in the arms of another man about a year into our relationship was – just as he’d expected – like being knifed in the heart. Wounded, I wailed and sulked and rather melodramatically thought my world was once again crashing down around me. Sam, having achieved his desired aim in returning to single, unattached and thus not emotionally involved (ah, Rule Number 1… the most impossible of all of Malone’s rules to follow) status, found that, well, life wasn’t so peachy like that after all and contritely – without actually grovelling, unfortunately – asked that I’d give him another go.

Clearly wanting to live up to my Stupid American tag, I reacted the exact same way when, six or so months later he did it again. By the fourth time however I was onto his game and hardly reacted at all. Instead of asking if there was anything I could do to change his mind I just ignored his behaviour and simply went about my day to day life as though nothing had changed. And, a week later with Sam on my doorstep with a conciliatory pizza in his hands, nothing really had.

Putting on a show in preference to sitting down and talking about his feelings is Sam’s way. It has been ever since I’ve known him, I suspect it’s always been the way and, lo and behold, as I’m currently witnessing, it’s still the way.

Which means my presence in his life has definitely managed to get under his skin.

“Bullshit you’re not playing at anything!” Sam snaps, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture that’s as defensive as it is querulous. “Just when were you going to tell me that you were moving back, huh? Oh! And the whole leaving tomorrow thing, I’m impressed with that too…”

“Been talking to Andrew, I take it?” I smile, taking a mouthful of beer and leaning casually back against the fridge. I don’t blame Andrew for getting in first and telling Sam my plans. He wasn’t to know that I hadn’t told him yet and I never mentioned it. Given how things have turned out – even if I’m the only one amused by it – I’m actually quite glad he let it slip because, really, the way Sam’s chosen to react is far better than anything I could have ever hoped for. “Of course I was going to tell you,” I continue, still smiling as Sam glowers at me. “Can I help it that I haven’t seen you since yesterday and most things only fell into place today?”

“No, of course not. I should have known somehow it would end up being my fault,” Sam retorts huffily. “After everything we’ve been through this past week, I just thought you might have had the common decency to…”

“To have told Andrew that I hadn’t seen you to tell you yet?” I finish, shrugging. “Sorry. If I’d known you were going to be speaking to him before me then of course I would have asked him to keep the news to himself for the time being. But… Seriously, Sam. It’s fine. You know now and we can talk when I get back.”

Neither his gaze nor his stance softening in the slightest, Sam snorts and continues to glare at me. “Last time I looked you knew how to use a phone,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“I got the impression from the way you had to rush back there yesterday that you were busy at work and I didn’t want to interrupt,” I reply, hoping like crazy that it’s not clear to Sam that I’m enjoying this whole exchange far too much. “Again though, hey, I’m sorry. You’re right. I could have phoned.”

“You’re damn right you could have phoned,” Sam mutters, looking for all the world as though he’d like nothing more than to shake me. “But… Fine. Whatever. You’ve obviously made your mind up and that’s all there is to it.”

“Uh-huh,” I agree. “I’m taking Phil back to San Diego tomorrow and then, once I’ve got everything sorted out over there, I’m coming back here for good. My apartment will be available at the end of the month, I’m sure I’ll be hit with a flash of brilliance job wise at some point and, yeah, that’s pretty much it. You now know as much as Andrew does.”

His expression suddenly changing from pissed off to unreadable, Sam shrugs and gives a curt nod. “You’ve got it all worked out then,” he murmurs, avoiding my gaze as he toys with his tie.

“As well as I’m capable of working anything out, anyway,” I reply, moving away from the fridge and positioning myself directly in front of Sam. “As I mentioned a moment ago though, we can talk when I get back. You don’t want to keep your… uh… friend waiting…”

“No, I don’t,” Sam responds stiffly as, apparently finding my proximity disconcerting, he takes a step backwards and glances towards the bedroom. “You’re right. I have better things to do with my time than… this,” he adds, trying to look enthused by the thought of the night of passion with Frenchy that awaits him but failing dismally. “As I have to leave early in the morning for work there’s a chance I won’t see you before you leave…”

“It’s alright, I’ll be back before you know it,” I smile, closing in on Sam and planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, again, for everything you’ve done for me. I promise you that I’ll do my best to make it up to you when I return. Now… Go! Have fun! I’ll just go and put some shoes on before getting out of your hair and heading off to Canary Wharf in search of food.”

“I… You do that,” Sam mutters, giving my arm a fleeting pat as looking either relieved or, alternatively, resigned, he starts to walk out of the kitchen. “I… I’ll be seeing you then…”

Beaming, I watch Sam as, reaching the bedroom, he pauses and glances over his shoulder at me, his expression of longing as open and as raw as I’ve ever seen on is face. “That you will,” I call out softly, turning away before Sam walks into the room so that I don’t have to watch him disappear.

More could have been said, I’m sure of it, and it most likely could have been handled better on both of our sides, but all in all I’m pretty happy with how it all went. The basics were covered and, by bringing Frenchy home with him, Sam has already made a pre-emptive strike in an attempt to warn me off which so, if you ask me, it’s all looking pretty damn positive. 

~*~

Retrieving the flat wooden box from under the bed, I brush off the fine layer of dust covering the lid with my hand and place it on top of the mattress. Needing reassurance that I’ve now got everything, I then lie flat on the carpet and shine a torch along the floor under the bed before, satisfied I haven’t left anything behind, clambering to my feet. More or less covered in dust from my hair to my shoes, I don’t even bother attempting to brush myself down and, knowing that I have to keep moving, pick the box up and carry it across the room to the packing carton by the door. Once upon a time it used to contain a silver cutlery service but no one, not even great-aunt Phyllis who lived to be one hundred and one years of age and who knew everything about every Keel to ever step foot in America, knew what had become of it. Given that no expense was spared for the box itself, with its silver lock and dark green velvet lining, it’s always been assumed that the cutlery set must have truly been something and debating – not to mention lamenting – its whereabouts has kept generations of the family occupied for hours on end. 

I’ve only ever known the box to contain treasured, albeit worthless and ultimately meaningless, pieces of paper – wedding and birth certificates, commendations, house deeds, the receipt for the very first car my great-grandfather purchased – and, since I inherited it, it’s one of the very few things I take with me on every move. If I felt as though I could fit it in I’d sit down on the bed and reacquaint myself with its contents – for that’s their sole purpose of existence, to be looked and reminisced over occasionally – but as it’s already late Friday and I’m hoping to catch the direct flight to London on Sunday I simply don't, not if I want to get everything done, have the time to spare.

Gently settling the box down into the carton, I pack clothes around it until I’m convinced it’s as well packaged as I’m going to get it and tell myself that maybe I’ll open it up once I’m back in my apartment and have a trawl through all the bits of paper there before shoving it into its traditional home of under the bed and promptly forgetting about it for another couple of years. While possessing very little, if indeed any monetary value, the box is considered a family heirloom and I know I’m only its caretaker until I decide who to pass it on to. Knowing that I won’t have any children myself, I could choose which cousin I think would treat it with the respect it deserves now and simply package it up and send it to them – but whenever I actually contemplate it something always stops me. There’s no logic to it, but I like knowing it’s under my bed and I also like knowing that I’m currently the one entrusted with its care.

The same can be said too for my grandmother’s antique display case and its eclectic collection, both expensive and otherwise, of knickknacks. In due course I’ll have to pass it on to someone but for now, despite the fact it doesn’t match anything else and I’m already worried that I won’t even have anywhere to put it in my apartment, I just like having it around. I remember it from my grandparent’s house and it was one of the few things my grandmother took with her into the nursing home. I also remember during the holidays I used to spend with them when I was young how, if I was sick or couldn’t play outside because of the weather, my grandmother would sit me down in front of the cabinet and tell me the history of all the items kept behind the glass. Sometimes, if grandfather wasn’t around, she’d even take pieces out and let me hold them which, given that I was somewhat of a klutz as a small boy and was forever experiencing the sinking feeling of yet another glass slipping through my fingers, was a true honour indeed. 

To this day, while I still don’t really understand the appeal of porcelain figurines or dainty cup and saucer sets, the cabinet and its contents are precious to me and I’ll find a place for it in my apartment even if it means having to redecorate the entire place just to fit it in. Not trusting myself with all the delicate treasures though, I’m leaving the packing of it to the removalist who do that sort of thing for a living and have already made an appointment at the car dealership to sell the BMW at the same time tomorrow that they’re due so I can’t hover over them, watching – nervously – to make sure they do everything both carefully and safely.

As with most things in my life at the moment though, I’ve got it all planned and, dare I say it, under control. I’ve been back in San Diego since late Wednesday and, hitting the ground running, I’ve already achieved most of what I’ve wanted to get done. Phil, who thankfully travelled like a very quiet, very solemn dream, is seemingly contentedly ensconced in Oak View Lodge and his new psychiatrist, Dr Rawson, is pleased enough with his progress to already be talking about making out patient appointments to continue seeing him when he leaves. I had to see him this morning in order to get his signature on the paperwork drawn up my lawyer in respect to his obligations regarding the house and, as far as I’m able to tell anyway, he seems to be doing well. His friend Jared had been to visit with the news that his job was being held open for him and I think, as it would give him something to focus on, he was looking forward to returning to work. There’s no escaping the fact we’re uncomfortable around each other now and, repetitive apologies aside, don’t have much to say to one another, but, really, that’s fine by me. Having obtained his signature, handed over the keys and said my farewells today, I don’t propose to see Phil again. I’ve done what I can and it’s now up to him to get his life back on track.

To use a not overly imaginative analogy, the chapter of my life containing Phillip Sanders is now closed.

Another chapter to have come to an end is the one dealing with my time at NCIS. I saw Director Moore yesterday and handed in my, effective immediately, resignation. He didn’t try to talk me out of it and I probably would have taken this as a personal slight if I hadn’t already spoken to Danny and heard how well Agent Gonzales was fitting in and how, paired together, they’d already closed a case that had been dragging on for months. It being – and quite rightly so – all about the job to the Director, he knew that his team wasn’t going to effected detrimentally by my departure and after thanking me for all my time and work simply wished me the best and buzzed his secretary to escort me from his office. Danny took a little more convincing as he’d already worked it out in his head how we could all work together but in the end, after extracting a promise to both keep in touch and have a spare bed for him should he ever venture to London, he reluctantly accepted that I knew what I was doing and simply gave me a big hug.

Wanting – for a change – to do everything right, I even took in a cake for everyone in the office at the time to stand around and share so I could give all my farewells and vaguely cryptic (‘oh, an opportunity has come up in London that I want to investigate’) excuses at once. It being human nature to do one thing while thinking another, I’m sure most of them are still talking about my peculiar behaviour – ‘this is out of the blue, what do you think he’s really up to?’ – but at the time at least I think it all went reasonably well. Instead of just taking off without a word to anyone I made an effort to say goodbye and even offered a half hearted justification for, basically, just upping and leaving. No one would know it, but for me anyway it was yet another step in the right direction.

So, Phil is sorted, NCIS is sorted, and although it’s time consuming and I’m already over it, I’ve also got the whole house-packing thing under control as well. I know that by the time I’m finished you’ll hardly be able to see any difference and that the house will still look, well, lived in, but the plan I came up with before starting is working and, with only a couple of rooms left to go, I’m going to stick to it. As the apartment in London is already furnished and I think leaving the house in such a way that Phil can simply move in and get on with his life would be the nice, sensible thing to do, I’m not worrying about any furniture other than my grandmother’s cabinet and am just going through the rooms cleaning them out of what are obviously my belongings. 

Of the stuff that is mine I’m sorting it into three categories – keep, give to charity, and throw out. Some would probably say that I’m being overly blasé, that just because I’ve got the money to replace things on an apparent whim doesn’t mean I should, but so far I’ve discovered I’m either leaving or throwing out more than I’m taking. If it’s something I’ve had for a long time or means something to me then it’s kept, if it’s in good condition but, looking at it I realise I wouldn’t care if I never saw it again, then it’s off to charity with it, and, lastly, if it’s crappy looking and I can’t work out why it is I’ve even got it in the first place then, bang, it’s in the bin. Everything else, linen, towels, DVDs, CDs, electrical equipment, kitchen utensils, you name it, I’m leaving for Phil. If I’ve misjudged and don’t have it in London then I’ll just buy it. Easy.

Along with the immensely gratifying sense of achievement, the other positive of this goal orientated path I find myself on is that I’m too busy to really think about just what it is I’m doing. Not the actual tasks themselves, but the bigger, doubt-filled picture. I am, after all, following my heart halfway around the world… when, and let’s face it here, it was the same troublesome heart that landed me here in the first place. The Sam and Frenchy Show Tuesday night tells me that having me around again has unsettled Sam enough to make him retreat into self-protection mode, but whether it leads anywhere in the long run remains to be seen. All I know is, without taking it too far so I become an embarrassing nuisance or make a complete a fool out of myself, I’m going to try to convince Sam that as we were incredibly good together once, we can be incredibly good, if not even better, together again.

And that, in a nutshell, is the sole sum of my thoughts in respect to what, essentially, is my guiding emotion.

I haven’t seen or spoken to Sam since Tuesday night so I have no idea what, if anything, he’s thinking about my imminent return. Not wanting an encore performance, I stayed put in my room after returning from Canary Wharf and after my half-a-sleeping-pill fuelled restful sleep I woke – as expected, really – to an empty apartment. I’ve toyed, a couple of times actually, with phoning Sam, just to let him know that things are working out and I hope to be back as soon as Sunday, but something always stops me and I settle for calling Backup instead. It’s probably a bit spineless on my part, as I know I’m guaranteed a cheery response from Backup whereas God alone knows what I’d get from Sam, but I tell myself it’s also because anything I’ve got to say to Sam at the moment is really best done face to face. As I know it would be rude of me, I plan to book into a motel – my last experience in a self-contained apartment having put me off them for a while – instead of simply knocking on Sam’s door with my bags and, depending on how my nerves are faring at the time, will probably give him a quick call Sunday night for the sole purpose of asking him out to dinner, whenever it’s convenient to him.

And that, in another nutshell, is the sole sum of my thoughts in respect to how I’m going best approach Sam.

The sound of the doorbell chiming in the otherwise silent house startling me slightly, I instinctively pat my pocket to ensure I’ve got the money to pay the pizza delivery guy and start to head down the stairs. It’s only as I near the front door that I realise, despite the lateness of the afternoon, that I haven’t even called for pizza – and, after having had pizza the past two nights, had in fact been leaning towards Chinese – and, not expecting anyone, slow my steps. Danny is the only person I know to ever call around without warning but as I know he’s on surveillance tonight and don’t know who else it’s likely to be, I hesitate over opening the door in preference to just getting on with my packing and am in the process of returning to the stairs when, the doorbell obviously having not got the desired result, my uninvited visitor starts to hammer forcefully on the door.

Annoyed by their persistence, I spin on my heels, stomp over to the door and wrench it open. “What? What’s so important that… Oh…” 

The sight of the man standing on the other side of the door renders me immediately both open-mouthed and silent and I honestly don’t know how to react. It’s safe to say, however, that I wouldn’t be any more surprised if I’d opened the door to find Hilary Clinton herself or some lunatic wearing a Mickey Mouse costume standing there.

Just…

Shit.

So much for thinking I held the monopoly on surprises.

“Can I come in?” Sam murmurs politely, his expression not giving anything away in respect to what he’s thinking of my reaction as he picks up his small overnight bag and waits patiently to be allowed in.

“Sam! I… Of course,” I stammer, taking a step back and gesturing him in. “Please. Come in. You… Uh… I’m surprised to see you.”

That’s me, the King of the Understatement.

“Really? I never would have guessed,” Sam replies, giving me a smug look as he walks through the door and drops his bag by the foot of the stairs. “Is that okay there?”

“Fine,” I respond, feeling slightly as though I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole as I close the door and, as though on autopilot, head towards the kitchen. If Sam can pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening then so can I. “Would you like something to drink?” I offer, suddenly thankful that there’s no hard liquor in the house because the way I’m feeling right now I could probably down a dozen shots without coming up for air. “I’ve got coffee, there may even be some tea somewhere, or…”

“Water will be fine, thank you,” Sam interrupts, following me into the kitchen. “It’s warmer here than it was in London and I’m still feeling a little scarred by what the airline attempted to pass off as coffee on the flight over.”

“Water I can do,” I smile, dutifully performing the role of good host as though I’d been expecting company all along. “If you’d like a glass,” I continue, grabbing the last bottle of water from the fridge and holding it towards Sam, “they’re in the cupboard above the microwave. Failing that, there might be a clean one in the dishwasher.”

Taking the bottle from me, Sam steps away to give me room and leans against the doorframe. “The bottle is fine,” he murmurs, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip as, feeling as though I need something to either fiddle or feign fascination with, I grab a can of Coke from the fridge before closing the door with my hip and walking out of the kitchen.

“Assuming you’re not wanting the tour, let’s go into the living room,” I state, mentally crossing my fingers that whatever it is that’s about to take place isn’t too unpleasant or… depressing. For Sam to have made the effort to come all the way over here to get something off his chest then, well, it must be pretty big. It goes without saying that the romantic in me – not to mention the part of me that likes to avoid confrontations at all costs – is hoping that he’s here to confirm that I’m not wasting my time and that, yes, he’s as interested as I am in having another go. But… Knowing Sam as I do he’s just as likely to go the other way entirely and has simply put himself out in order to set me straight here and now and to put an end to this nonsense before I insist on trying to take it further.

Just… Oh God… Why now and why like this? Why put me on the back foot like this?

My heart beginning to beat dull tattoo in my chest, I take a seat on the only armchair not covered with bags destined for charity and, without looking at him, indicate to Sam that he’s welcome to sit on the sofa. “So…”

“I want to ask you something, Chris,” Sam states clearly, cutting me off as he chooses to remain standing in the doorway, “and I want you to answer honestly.”

“Uh…” Oh-oh. Why doesn’t this sound good? “Of course. Ask away.”

“This harebrained idea of yours to return to London, is it because of me?” Sam queries in the same blunt, no nonsense tone that I used to hear him interrogate suspects with. “I want… No. I need to know,” he adds, shifting away from the doorframe and coming to a stop directly in front of me. “Chris… Promise me you’ll answer truthfully.”

“I…” Not liking, although I know it’s irrational of me, having Sam looming over and looking down at me, I stand up and walk over to the television set. “I promise that the answer I’m going to give is the truth,” I murmur, playing for time and taking a sip of Coke before looking around for somewhere to place the can.

“And that answer would be?” Sam prompts, doing his best to speed things along by taking the can from me and putting it down on the coffee table. “Come on, Chris. I’ve travelled a long way to hear it.”

“And the answer is…” Straightening my back, I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans and, because I know it’s what I have to do, force myself to meet Sam’s gaze. “Yes… and no,” I reply, watching him closely for any form of reaction but, not that it surprises me greatly, not seeing one. “I’ll admit you’re a big part, the biggest, actually, of why I’m coming back, but you’re not the only part. Although I thought I was quite happy in the world of denial I was living in over here, I only had to spend a couple of days in London to realise I was kidding myself, and… and I don’t want to go back to living like that. I love London, have fond memories of living there and I want to be around my friends again. I want to be able to see Backup and Spencer and Richards, and to be able to have dinner parties like we did on Saturday night and…” 

Here goes nothing. At least the expression on Sam’s face as he stares at me seems to be one of interest and not amusement. “And, yes, I want to be friends with you again, Sam. I never allowed myself to think it all these years but, I… I’ve missed you. Oh God, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you and how seeing you again has just brought everything rushing back. I… I have no expectations and I promise that I’ll keep to myself if you’re not interested or I’m annoying you, but… Uh… Does that… uh… answer your question?”

“Do you know what day it is?” Sam asks apropos of nothing as, his poker face once again slipping neatly into place, he takes a seat on the edge of the sofa.

“Huh? What?” Unsure as to just what Sam’s up to here, I shrug and nod. “Today’s Friday,” I mutter. “What of it?”

Sighing, Sam takes a mouthful of water and, stretching his legs out in front of him, settles back more comfortably against the sofa. “Two weeks,” he replies cryptically, seemingly directing his response to the water bottle in his hands. “It’s only been two weeks since Malone’s funeral… Two weeks since you crashed back into my life and turned everything upside down.”

“Oh…” Not liking feeling as though I’m looming over Sam any more than when I felt he was looking down at me, I return to the armchair and sit down. “Time sure flies when you’re having fun,” I add lamely.

“Fun?” Sam echoes, turning his head to look at me through strangely dull eyes. “You were the last person I expected to see at the funeral, granted it was through no real fault of your own but you took over my life and my home for close to a week, and then you were gone again. I know you said you were coming back, but…” Trailing off, Sam looks away and shrugs. “Maybe some of your trademark impatience rubbed off on me or something, but… I couldn’t wait. I… I have to know what’s going on…”

“What’s going on,” I reply softly, the ember of hope I can feel flaring in my chest being tempered by the uncertain expression on Sam’s face, “is that I discovered during my brief time in London that I enjoy the company of the friends I’ve got there immensely and that… that I still care for you as much as I ever did. You were the best friend I ever had, I loved you, and the time we spent together was by far the best of my life. I know it ended badly, and that we’re both as much to blame as the other for that, but… Hell! I don’t know. Maybe I’m clutching at straws and imagining signs that aren’t even there, but, Sam, I… I want the opportunity to try again. That… So… Uh… That’s what’s going on…” 

“Saturday night, and Sunday’s trip to Brighton, it was almost as though the past five years hadn’t even happened,” Sam murmurs, bringing the bottle of water to his lips before lowering it without having taken a drink. “I had so much fun, more fun than I can remember having had for a long time, that…” Falling abruptly silent, Sam jerks his head up and, looking flushed, glares at me. “Fuck!” he exclaims, finally giving in to the emotion that’s no doubt been bubbling under his calm and cool exterior ever since he bit the proverbial bullet and booked a flight to San Diego. “Just what is it about you, Chris, huh? From the first moment I met you you’ve been able to get under my skin like no one and… nothing… else I’ve ever met. You… My world is forever thrown in turmoil when you’re around and you make me feel things there was time I never thought possible.” Pausing again, he snorts and shakes his head. “Backup told me that she let it slip how, after you’d upped and pissed off, for those of us poor sods left behind, it was honestly as though you were dead. Despite everything we’d shared together you just shut us all out and that was just that. You couldn’t even be bothered getting in contact. It was like we didn’t even exist and… and you’d think that would be a little hard to forget, wouldn’t you, but, oh no… You land back in my life and, again, it’s like nothing ever happened. I thought I’d be okay, that I could play nice until you left again, but… Shit! Finding you in the apartment like that really shook me and it all, all the old feelings, came flooding back, and the only thing I could feel was grateful, that… that you were still there and hadn’t taken off again. Ironic, huh? I wanted you gone so I could go on my merry way pretending you no longer meant anything to me but the second I discovered you in the apartment all I wanted to do was to do everything in my power to look after you. Now… If that doesn’t make me a fool then I don’t know what would…”

“I…” My head spinning from everything Sam’s just said, I lurch to my feet and, hoping that I’m doing the right thing, sit gingerly next to him on the sofa. “You’re not a fool,” I whisper, wafting my hand over his knee but hesitating at the last second over actually letting it rest there, “and I’m sorry. It’s all very well saying in hindsight I should have handled things differently but… I didn’t and I can’t alter the past. I shut myself off because, selfishly, I thought it would be easier. If I’d known…” Not wanting to see how many different ways I can repeat myself, I shrug and in a moment of daring place my hand on Sam’s knee. “I’m sorry. I handled things badly and I’m sorry.”

Shifting his knee away from my hand, Sam stands up and looks down at me for a few seconds before shaking his head and going to stand by the window. “I don’t want your apologies, Chris,” he murmurs, presenting his back to me as he looks out through the glass. “What I want is… you. I want you. God knows I don’t want to, that what I should want is to take your disruption of my life with a grain of salt and just put it behind me as some sort of aberration, but I can’t. Having had a taste of what things are like with you back in them, I don’t want to go back to how it was. I deliberately avoided you Monday and Tuesday in the hope that I’d come to my senses but clearly it didn’t work as I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind and… Look at me, here I am, standing in your living room and babbling like a complete moron.”

“But a moron talking from the heart,” I reply lightly as, hardly believing my luck, I get up and walk over to join Sam by the window. “If it helps I think you’re doing far better than I would have if the tables were turned and I’d got to… uh… babble first and…” Suddenly not caring if I’m reading this wrong and am about to make a big mistake, I slide my arms around Sam’s waist and, pressing up against his back, rest my chin on his shoulder. “I want you too… You’re all I want, all I ever wanted. We stuffed everything up the first time around but that shouldn’t be a reason to not give things another go. Maybe it won’t work and we’re both kidding ourselves, but maybe it will and I for one think it’s a risk very much worth taking. We’ll never know if we don’t… try…”

Sam stiffens at my touch but makes no attempt to pull away which I take as a promising sign. “I find this all so very annoying,” he sighs after what feels to me like an incredibly long, drawn out silence. “It shouldn’t be this easy. Five years shouldn’t be able to just be erased like this. It… It’s not right. This… Everything. It should be more difficult. You shouldn’t be able to float back into my life and have everything go back to how it was.”

“Why?” I prompt, tightening my arms around Sam and loving, even if he’s giving no indication of feeling a damn thing, the feel our bodies pressed so closely together. “I’m as… taken aback… by how things have panned out as you are. I never expected to feel anything, hell, I probably don’t even deserve this… faint hope of a second chance, but… Ignoring the circumstances, being with you again has been incredible and, be it selfish of me or whatever, I want to try again. I want to make you the offer, no, promise, of doing whatever it takes to make a go of this, of being together again.”

“I still don’t think it should be this easy,” Sam mutters, suddenly twisting around in my embrace so that we’re facing each other and draping his arms over my shoulders. “But, fine. You, as always, win. It pisses me off that five years can just… disappear… as though nothing ever happened but… you’ve wriggled your way under my skin again and I can’t bear the thought of life going back to how it was when you weren’t in it, so…”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained?” I offer with a smile as for the first time since Sunday Sam’s expression relaxes into one of genuine happiness. “I’m sure we could talk and argue and point fingers and make excuses for hours, if not days, but, for now, what do you say, we call it a truce and simply accept that we’re both willing to give it a go and…”

Warm, achingly familiar feeling lips settling over mine rendering me – save for a muffled snort of pleasure – silent, I give myself over to Sam’s soft kiss as a sense of lightness and relief washes over me. When the lingering kiss ends, he gently cups my cheek in the palm of his hand and chuckles in response to the disappointed pout I can feel tugging on my lips. “Oh! I thought you were going to say that we could just kiss and make up,” Sam murmurs, smiling as he strokes his finger down the side of my face.

“I was actually going to say… and just go out for dinner,” I reply, leaning forward and stealing another quick kiss, “but your option is fine too.”

“Hmm… Dinner. Very civilised,” Sam responds, cocking his head to one side and peering at me through bright eyes. “Having refused to run the risk of eating just whatever it was they dished up on the plane, I would, I have to say, be very happy to take you up on your offer of dinner.”

“Okay. Dinner it is.” Beaming, I accept that this is how it’s going to be for now, that seizing the moment and moving with it is currently the way forward, and reluctantly free myself from Sam’s embrace. “I know I told you that nowhere in San Diego matches Giuseppe’s for pasta, but what it is quite okay for is seafood and I know of a great little restaurant not far from here if you’re up for it.”

“Sounds good,” Sam replies, glancing down at the lovely coating of dust now covering his clothes and grimacing. “Ah… Given that I now look like you, what’s the dress code of this place like?”

Laughing, I make a token effort of brushing the dust from my clothing before giving up and shrugging. “It has great food, not a celebrity chef, famous clientele or multiple awards. In other words, you’ll be fine. If you want to change though, given that I’m thinking you don’t have much with you, I’m sure you could force yourself to borrow something of mine if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Point me in the direction of the bathroom to freshen up and that should do,” Sam responds, glancing pointedly at my outfit and making a tsking sound under his breath. “You, however…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “I look like something the cat’s dragged in. I know, you don’t have to say it. In my defence though I at least have been very busy and not just sitting on my ass on a plane. But, for you, I’ll change. I may even shower.”

“When you said whatever it takes you really meant it then,” Sam snickers, trailing his fingers along my arm as he walks past me towards the stairs. “Come on then, if you’re genuinely concerned about not embarrassing me out in public I’d better go pick something for you to wear.”

Snorting, I beat Sam to the stairs and come to a stop by his overnight bag. “Don’t push your luck, Curtis,” I murmur sweetly, gesturing at his bag. “What’s this anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve finally discovered the benefits of travelling light?”

“Having no real idea what reaction I was going to get or what, really, I was getting myself into, I decided to just book a flight back Sunday and be done with it one way or another,” Sam replies, glancing down at his bag and giving a small shrug. “So long as there’s no formal events on your horizon that you may perhaps need a guest for, I’ll be fine.”

“No formal events, just drinks organised by my friend Danny at what passes as the NCIS local tomorrow night. Which, of course, you’re invited to and, uh, which I won’t take no for an answer for,” I reply, starting up the stairs. “I’d been planning to catch the Sunday flight as well so I think I’d now better get off my butt and get on with booking a seat.”

“Apart from being able to enjoy my company, I’ve perhaps got another reason for you wanting to be on that flight,” Sam responds, following me up the stairs and into the bedroom. “I had an interesting call this morning from Brenton Horvath that, to be honest, I’m still not entirely sure what to make of it.”

Grabbing a clean shirt from the pile waiting to be packed on the bed, I clutch it to my chest and look at Sam blankly. I’m sure I probably should know who this Brenton Horvath is but, nope, right now I can’t place him. “Who’s Horvath?” I query, looking at Sam expectantly.

“Who’s Horvath?” Sam repeats, giving me an odd look as he takes the shirt from my hand and picks out another one from the pile. “He was the head of Five,” he continues, referring to MI5 as, smirking, he hands me the shirt, “while we were at CI5 and since then has either consulted or held fairly lofty positions in just about every high powered law enforcement agency the world over. Interpol, the FBI, CIA, you name it and he’s been on their books at some time or another.”

“Hurrah for Horvath,” I mutter, returning Sam’s smirk as I take the shirt from him and drape it over my arm before going over to an open suitcase and digging around in it for a pair of jeans. “I’m still not sure where any of this is going.”

“Word on the street is that the British government have head hunted Horvath in order to command a new, highly specialised agency,” Sam states, leaning over my shoulder and, batting my hand away as I reach for my chosen jeans, plucking a pair of black trousers from the case. “Here. These will look much better with the shirt. Back to Horvath though, the reason he called me was because he was wondering if I’d like to meet with him.”

“Oh.” Taking the trousers from Sam, I sit down on the edge of the bed and, suddenly fascinated by where this appears to be going, give him my full attention. “You think he may be going to offer you a job?

“I have no idea,” Sam replies, sitting down next to me and, to my almost inane delight, leaning his shoulder against mine. “Knowing that he knows enough about me to want to meet is rather flattering though…”

Nodding, I shift closer to Sam and close my hand around his knee. “Hell, yeah. So I take it you’re going to meet him then?”

“Mmm… If nothing else he’s wanting to meet at Monday afternoon at three at The Langham and, well, as they’re renowned for their afternoon teas I’d be mad not to make the most of the opportunity,” Sam murmurs, looking across at me and smiling. “Oh, and let’s not forget that he also happened to mention that should, and this is more or less in his words, my American friend be in town and not have any prior arrangements then he’d be more than welcome to come along as well…”

Sam’s response surprising me – if I’ve ever even heard Horvath’s name before I can’t recall it, but he knows of me? – I look at him and frown. “That’s… odd… don’t you think?” I query hesitantly. “I mean, why would this Horvath guy know anything about me or, for that matter, be interested in meeting me? I have to say I don’t really get it.”

“Don’t look so worried,” Sam replies with an easy, unbothered smile. “I get the impression he knows everything about everyone, that’s all.”

“Like Malone then,” I mutter, returning Sam’s smile as I realise I’m in danger of trying to make something out of what is essentially nothing. If Horvath wants to meet with Sam then undoubtedly it would be because he’s heard good things about him and if that general feeling extends to me too then Sam’s right, it is rather flattering. Completely unexpected, not to mention possibly just that little bit creepy, but something to definitely be viewed with interest nonetheless.

“Pretty much,” Sam agrees, laughing. “I have no idea what he’s wanting to meet about but I’ve got to admit he’s got me curious. What about you though? At the risk of putting you on the spot, are you in too?”

“Well, as I’m now officially an unemployed bum, count me in,” I reply, snickering as a vaguely stunned expression flickers over Sam’s face at my choice of words. “What? It’s true. NCIS have accepted my resignation and when I’ve got a spare moment I’m going to have to hit up Google for my closest benefits office.”

Looking askance at the very idea, Sam snorts back laughter and shakes his head. “Chris, the day the Government deem you eligible for the dole is the day I give up on Britain and move to a tropical island somewhere. Just… No. I can’t even bring myself to think about it.”

“I’m sure if I found a dodgy enough accountant somewhere that I’d be able to rort the system as well as anyone,” I grin, still internally marvelling at how incredibly wonderfully things are going. “As it’s clear you’re wanting to save me from becoming a blight on the British tax payers though, perhaps I’d better call on your superior fashion skills to help me make a good impression at the meeting. Think you’re up for it?”

“Easily,” Sam retorts, giving me a gentle nudge in the side with his elbow. “As I’m assuming you’ll be wanting to take over my flat again while you wait for yours to be ready, saving you from a fashion faux pas will be easy done.”

Touched by the way Sam’s already talking about letting me stay with him, I squeeze my hand around his knee and hide my delight behind a mask of sarcasm. “Seeing as you offered so nicely, I’d love to stay with you and partake in your fashion expertise. If you’d like you could list it as community service on your resume.”

“Oh God, what am I getting myself into here,” Sam mock groans.

“Nothing you haven’t gotten yourself into before,” I smirk before, unable to help myself, winking at Sam and sliding my hand up along the inside of his thigh. “You know, I’m sure I could make a double entendre out of that…”

Groaning again, this time slightly louder and more heartfelt, Sam grabs my hand and returns it to my lap. “Please don’t,” he murmurs, rolling his eyes. “Seriously… I can’t believe I’d forgotten how… mentally unbalanced… you are and… and how not funny you are!”

“But you’ve missed me anyway,” I reply, planting a quick kiss on Sam’s cheek. “I might be borderline insane and the world’s comedians mightn’t have anything to fear from me, but, go on, admit it, you’ve missed me.”

Standing up, Sam holds out his hand and waits for me take it before hauling me to my feet and wrapping his arms around my waist in a tight embrace. “That I have,” he whispers warmly in my ear as all but literally purring with contentment I slump against him. “I’m still annoyed at how easily this is all going, but, I… I really have missed you and I’m thanking my lucky stars for this second chance. Maybe… I don’t know… Maybe it’s all proving to be so easy for a reason…”

Thankful that I have an answer for Sam without having to waste time on thinking of the right thing to say, I cup his face in my hands and, once he’s looking me in the eye, smile. “Of course it is,” I murmur. “What’s more, having made it this far, it’ll only get easier. You’ll see…”

~*~

“Don’t come in,” Sam calls out as he pulls the apartment door shut and heads towards the bedroom. “I’ll just get changed and join you in a minute or two.”

Knowing that Sam won’t hear me anyway, I don’t bother replying and, turning around, step back out onto the balcony. While I’d been going to go inside to greet Sam, it’s not exactly a hardship staying outside in the warm evening air and I settle myself back down in my new favourite chair with a contented sigh. Sam’s home, I honestly feel as though my life is falling neatly into place and, seriously, just about the only thing I’d need right now for everything to be perfect would be a fresh beer. Things are just that… gloriously and – dare I even think it? – effortlessly good. I’m back in London, back with Sam (back in other words where, really, I never should have left), and I’m just… happy. Happy and hopeful and feeling better about my life than I have for a long time. 

I know there’ll still be ups and downs and that it’s highly doubtful this honeymoon period of plain sailing will continue for much longer, but… That’s life. We’ll bicker, occasionally even go the jugular in a full blown argument, but this time I’m confident we’re both playing for keeps and are in it for the long haul. I doubt we would have made it to this stage if we didn’t honestly believe this to be the case. Having both lived through the alternative, we now know better than we ever did before how important what we have is and that, perhaps contrary to our very natures, it’s definitely very much worth fighting for.

“Here,” Sam murmurs, holding a bottle of beer towards me as he walks onto the balcony. “I thought you’d probably be wanting one of these right about now.”

“My hero,” I reply with a smile as I take the beer from Sam and pop off the cap. “You must have read my mind.”

“More like I was getting a glass of wine for myself and I thought I’d be nice and bring you something as well,” Sam retorts, toasting me with his glass as he sinks down into a chair. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I echo, taking a drink of beer before placing the bottle on the table and looking across at Sam. Having changed from his suit into jeans and a crisp white shirt, he looks relaxed and I wonder if now is the time to raise the subject which I just know has to be weighing as heavily on his mind as it is mine. There’s no rush, and it’s not exactly like it’s the sort of thing that should be rushed into, but at the same time I kind of want to just get it out in the open and over and done with.

Noticing me looking at him, Sam raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Go on then. I know you’re just dying to, so… Ask away.”

“Again with reading my mind!” I mutter, grinning as I give a rueful shake of my head. “I tell you, Sam, this has just gotta stop.”

“You’re predictable, what can I say?” Sam replies with another laugh. “So… Out with it. What did…”

“You think of Horvath’s offer?” I finish, poking my tongue out at Sam in a ‘ha, I beat you!’ gesture. “It was certainly… interesting…”

“That it was,” Sam agrees as, placing his glass on the table, he stands up and walks over to lean against the ledge. “He presented it well too.”

“Uh-huh.” Standing up, I join Sam by the ledge and together we look out over the Thames. Horvath being a very compelling man with great presence and conviction, the offer he presented to the pair of us over afternoon tea this afternoon was definitely both well thought out and… enticing. To be part of an as yet unnamed agency that combined the elements of just about all of the current agencies – from MI6 to the CIA and everywhere in-between – while simultaneously flying under the radar and being accountable solely to the Prime Minister of Britain, well… Let’s just say it certainly had a lot going for it. Not to mention how flattering it was to be even asked in the first place.

“And?” Sam prompts, turning to face me, his expression curiously neutral. “Have you reached a decision yet?”

“Well, given that I’m currently unemployed the offer did come at a very opportune moment,” I reply, shrugging. “And, you know, it’s not like it’s anything I haven’t done before…”

Smiling, Sam gives a small nod and returns to gazing out over the river. “Good. As I knew that would be what you’d say I tendered my resignation when I went back to the office this afternoon…”

“Oh. You did, did you?”

“Uh-huh. Just call me a glutton for punishment.”

“Looks like we’ll be working together again then.”

“Looks like.”

Keeping a straight face suddenly becoming as hard for Sam as it is for me, we both smile at the exact same time and gravitate together for a hug. Tightening my arms around Sam, I relax against him and, with a conviction I know I’m right to believe in, whisper, “Here’s to a new beginning,” in his ear.

A new beginning that I’m very much looking forward to.

~ End ~


End file.
